


My Throat is An Open Grave

by inkandpaperqwerty



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abused Sam Winchester, Azazel's Camp for Special Kids, Black Markets, Bobby Singer Deals With Idjits, Bobby Singer Loves His Idjits, Castiel Loves Humanity, Castiel and Dean Winchester Are Best Friends, Castiel and Dean Winchester are Dorks, Demon Blood Addict Sam Winchester, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, John Winchester Tries, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Oops, Or He Did When He Was Alive Anyway, Parental Bobby Singer, Past Abuse, Physical Abuse, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Psychic Sam, Psychic Sam Winchester, Recovering Addict Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Slave Sam, Slave Sam Winchester, Slavery, Supportive Bobby Singer, Team Free Will, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-10 15:39:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 52,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15294669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandpaperqwerty/pseuds/inkandpaperqwerty
Summary: Dean didn't get paid nearly enough for the job he did. Seriously. Using the money he had set aside for his missing brother to purchase Lucifer's Prom Dress from a monster auction, and then traveling halfway across the country with Heaven and Hell's most coveted weapon riding shotgun had to be worth more than credit card fraud could provide. And if that wasn't bad enough, the Boy with the Demon Blood just had to be named Sam, didn't he?Sam didn't get paid enough, either, but he was significantly less picky than Dean. He just wanted a family, a place to call home, a chance to find out what hug was like, and maybe a break from the constant nightmares. If that was too much to ask, he would understand, seeing as he was a stupid, disobedient, demon-blooded monster who disappointed every owner he had. Just one thing, then? Maybe? Just an older brother to get in between him and the monsters and pain and nightmares; one who would sometimes, if Sam was a very good boy, call him Sammy and give him hugs.Yeah, that would be nice. That would be more than enough for Sam.





	1. Chapter 1

“Wow, Bobby, you sure know how to pick’em.” Dean took another swig of beer and looked across the table at Castiel, phone pressed to his ear. “You sure he’s gonna be here?”

Castiel nodded in perfect sync with Bobby replying, “Positive.”

Dean sighed, resigned to his fate. He hated hunter auctions—monsters, monsters everywhere, and not a one to kill—but if the information was good, he didn’t have much of a choice.

Bobby’s information was always good.

“I guess if you say the special snowflake is here, he’s here.”

“‘Course he’s there. Now get him and get back here in one piece. Idjits.”

The line went dead, and Dean snapped his phone shut, taking another drink. He sat back and looked across the dimly lit bar to the stage. There was a female vampire on display, and while she was undeniably hot, Dean only curled a lip in disgust and put his focus back on the table.

“Dean,” Castiel started, his tone halting and ever-confused. “The Boy with the Demon Blood will in no way resemble snow. He will, for all intents and purposes, appear human.”

Dean threw his eyes into an upward roll. “It’s just a saying, Cas.”

Castiel tilted his head, still befuddled, but he let it go and addressed another point of logical discord. “Why do these auctions exist at all? If these monsters were successfully hunted, why aren’t they dead?”

Dean shrugged his shoulders, watching with mild interest as a male werewolf was put on the block. “Everybody has a different reason. Improving the hunting process is the big one. You know, testing lore and finding out what’s accurate, experimenting with new methods of killing or trapping, stuff like that. Some need monster parts for spells and stuff, some sell the parts to make extra money, some need psychic-demon-blood babies to help them stop the apocalypse… everyone has their kink.”

Castiel frowned, and despite being responsive and fully engaged in their conversation, his eyes began to track the activity on stage. “The Boy won’t be a baby anymore, and we are not having sexual relations with him.”

Dean deadpanned. “You don’t say.”

Castiel opened his mouth but stopped short, head cocking slightly as he examined the auction block. “He hasn’t been brought out, but I can sense him.” His head tilted a little more. “His presence distorted, but if I’m able to sense him through the wards and sigils, he must be very close.”

Dean looked up at the auction block, but it was just another vampire, and she was switching out with a wraith. Beyond that, a black curtain, and Dean couldn’t see much else. Most of the lights had been turned down low, and the colored accent lights, neon signs, and moving bidders only added to the visual clutter.

“You sure, Cas?”

Castiel looked at him an arched a brow, clearly affronted.

Dean held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, you’re sure.”

Immediately, Castiel’s eyes were back on the block where, supposedly, their target would soon appear. “If you are outbid, be prepared to run. I’ll obtain the abomination by force if necessary.”

Dean snorted and took another drink of his beer, frowning at the mild warmth spreading through him. _Whew. Moving a little too fast there, Hoss._ Normally, he would embrace the buzz, but he wasn’t exactly doing a ‘sobriety is optional’ kind of job.

“How about you just snatch him now and save my wallet?”

“Many reasons, the most prevalent being that we agreed it’s wise to attract as little attention as possible; using angelic abilities to steal a psychic would attract a lot of attention.” Castiel had no sarcasm in his voice when he replied, no sense of irony.

Dean groaned. _It’s gonna be a long night._

“There.” Castiel leaned forward slightly, eyes locked on their target.

Dean did a doubletake, his face twisting with an odd combination of shock, confusion, and incredulousness. _Is that a dude or a sasquatch?_

“Neither. It’s the Boy.”

Dean cast a brief glare across the table. “Cas, we’ve talked about this. Personal space includes personal headspace. Keep your wavelengths to yourself, Mr. Celestial Intent.”

Castiel didn’t even look at him. “Right.” He squinted, suspicion tightening his muscles. “Why hasn’t the bidding started?”

“They’re going over details, describing the monster and what it can do.” Dean paused, frowning as something occurred to him. “Did you seriously spend all that time zeroed in on the auction and not pay attention to what was actually happening?”

Castiel didn’t reply, preoccupied by their target.

“Oh, for—” Dean waved it off and took a sip of his drink, turning his own attention to the legendary vessel, knowing he would pick up on things Castiel couldn’t.

Dean, unlike most of the hunters in the building, didn’t need to hear what the auctioneers had to say; body language gave him everything he needed.

Demon Boy stood with his head down, broken and subservient; posture stiff, stressed; shoulders hunched, afraid; stance wide, independent enough to fight when threatened; slow and steady breathing, familiar with the auction process and bright lights and animal-on-display feeling; scars in various stages of healing, well acquainted with a good, old-fashioned beatdown.

Still, Dean gleaned a few helpful details from the spoken information. If Demon Boy had a name, it wasn’t given, and nothing was said about when, where, and how he was obtained, but they said he was twenty-six with frequent visions he couldn’t control. He also had the ability to—and this seemed to surprise even Castiel—exorcise and kill demons with his mind.

Dean cursed, knowing something like that would drive the price sky high, and he opened his mouth to tell Castiel to get ready for a psychic-napping; however, he was interrupted by the auctioneer explaining that Demon Boy had to drink demon blood to maintain the extra abilities.

“Uh, Cas?” Dean leaned across the table, watching the block closely. “That’s gonna drive the price down, which is great, but… _what?_ I thought you said he had demon blood in his veins, not his diet.”

Castiel didn’t look away from the spectacle, examining Demon Boy like a bug under a microscope. “It was always assumed that one would lead to the other, but we couldn’t be sure.”

Dean glared but tried to focus on the task at hand as the bidding started, one hand briefly going up to indicate his placement. He watched the auctioneer point to a few different corners of the crowd, but he didn’t place another bid right away.

“Dean, what—?”

Dean put a finger to Castiel’s lips, which was misconstrued as another bid, but Dean just rolled with it. He watched the steadily increasing bids knock potential buyers out one by one, waiting for the infamous ‘going once’ to lift his hand again.

“I take it you are utilizing some kind of—”

Dean slapped a hand over Castiel’s mouth, raising the other even though the initial movement would likely be interpreted as a bid anyway. _We’re getting close to my limit._ He bid again even as he had the thought. _It’s so stupid. It’s not like the money will ever get used._ Dean bid again and tried to clear his thoughts. _No, it will. It will get used._

Dean had to believe that. He had to believe it like he believed his dad was alive when everyone else said he wasn’t. He had to believe the money would someday be used exactly as his parents intended when they first made the account.

Dean had to believe he was going to find Sam someday. Because he was—he _was_ —and he wanted the college fund to be there when he did. He wanted every dollar they had slowly, _painstakingly_ collected over the years to matter. He wanted to hold out a receipt of the balance, look his long-lost brother in the eye, and say, ‘Dad got me a Scooby-Doo lunchbox for my fifth birthday, and every day, we put a dollar in it. Every year on your birthday, Dad put in a fifty, and then another one every Christmas. Every time we wasted a monster, we put in an extra dollar, because Dad said every hunt brought us one step closer to a future where you would need that money and be here to spend it. I know I wasn’t there for you like a big brother is supposed to be, but you need to know not a day went by that we didn’t think about you.’

Dean had been rehearsing that speech for more than two decades; it was a goal—a dream, even—that kept him going when he wanted to give up. Needless to say, it was odd when, with those thoughts in mind, Dean continued to bid past his limit.

But Dean had noticed the way the counterbids came slower, and he knew his opponent was close to hitting a monetary limit, not a psychological one they could push past with the right motivation. Tactically, he was doing the smart thing, but it still stung every time he lifted his hand.

Castiel mumbled something behind Dean’s hand.

Dean grabbed his number and put it in the air, raising the bid for what he knew would be the last time. _Yet another skill Dad taught me coming in handy when I never thought it would._

“Sold, to the gentleman in the back, number six sixty-six, for $14,750.”

Dean lowered his number, heart pounding in his chest, and caught Castiel’s eye. He dropped his mouth-covering hand with a firm order, “Not a word, Cas.”

Castiel looked at the number. “That—”

“Cas.” Dean gave him a warning look as he left their table behind, walking toward the stockroom with his number in hand. “I can’t believe I just bought a monster. Man, if Dad could see me now.”

Castiel didn’t reply, but it hadn’t really been a question, so Dean ignored it.

Dean pushed through the swinging door—and nearly jumped out of his skin.

Castiel was standing there, staring with those _stupid,_ wide eyes of obliviousness.

Dean put a hand to his sternum and rubbed the ache away. _That’s why he didn’t reply._ He rolled his eyes for what had to be the fifth time that night. _If I keep this up, my eyes are gonna roll right out of my head._

“No, that would be physically impossible.”

Dean heaved a sigh. _“Cas.”_

Castiel didn’t apologize, but he did avert his eyes with an ashamed duck of the head.

 _Close enough._ Dean started walking again, gaze flickering between the different cages.

Large, neon tags with black initials were used to mark the various cages in the stockroom. Dean wasn’t familiar with hunter auctions, but the system seemed simple enough. SS for shapeshifter, V for vampire, W for werewolf, WR for wraith, RU for rugaru, PSY for psychic, and so on. They only passed one PSY cage, and it was empty.

Castiel spoke with a hint of danger in his tone. “Is it possible he escaped?”

Dean shook his head and kept walking, unconcerned. “You saw him. He’s whipped. Metaphorically, and maybe literally. They either moved him, or that’s not his cage.”

“How can he be metaphorically…” Castiel trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

Dean knew why immediately, the sounds of a struggle catching his attention. It was only scuffing shoes at first, but then someone started to speak, and they sounded caught between terror and despair.

“No… no, no, no, please… I hate it so much… _please_ …”

It was the kind of pleading that was soft, bordering on a whine, crafted by years of being ignored no matter what was said or done. It was the kind of pleading Dean wasn’t going to leave uninvestigated.

Not that Dean had an issue with repurposing monsters. If the monster in question was extremely dangerous, he thought it was stupid, but it didn’t bother him. If they weren’t sold, they would be dead, so they really couldn’t complain—and even if they could, Dean wasn’t known for his bleeding heart when it came to monsters.

But Dean wasn’t naïve. Dean knew there were owners and traders who went off the reservation. Or at least, they went off Dean’s reservation, which was pretty straightforward: even rabid animals and serial killers were put down humanely.

“C’mon, bud. You know it’s easier when you don’t fight.”

“I don’t want it, Kent. I hate it. Plea—”

Dean heard choking and gurgling sounds clashing with the mewls of a caged vampire nearby, all of it underscored by Castiel’s quickening footsteps behind him.

“Dean, are you walking this way because of the Boy?”

“If that’ll make you be quiet so I can listen, sure.”

“We can’t get sidetracked, Dean, this is—”

Dean turned a corner and took in the scene as quickly as possible.

Demon Boy was the one who had been begging, which worked out well because it helped them find him; only he couldn’t beg anymore because a male worker—Kent, most likely—was holding his head in place while a female worker held a large feeding syringe deep in his mouth.

Demon Boy, to his credit, did not want what they were feeding him. He grunted and choked, red liquid spilling over his lips and down his chin, knees pushing against the concrete floors. He pulled on the chains securing his wrists over his head, and Kent was having a hard time keeping his head still, all of which was a footnote.

‘They’re Giving Him Demon Blood,’ was the headline.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Dean closed the distance and barely kept himself from physically ripping the syringe from the woman’s hands. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m giving him the first dose.” She replied, disinterested, continuing to push the plunger. “It’s included in the purchase, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Dean’s eyes flickered over to the psychic trying desperately to push the feeding device out with his tongue. “I don’t need his demon-exorcising whatever.” His continued scan of his surroundings found an already empty syringe in a nearby bucket. “I just need the psychic guru crap.” _And for him to not be Lucifer’s vessel, so if you could stop helping that process along, that’d be great._

“Okay…?” She looked at him oddly and, despite her confusion, tossed the syringe at its twin. “Kent, let him go; they can take him as is.” Then, to Dean, she added, “Keep an eye on this one. Freak’ll put you in the hospital.”

Dean watched as Kent cautiously let go of the tangled hair and bruised chin, allowing Demon Boy to lower his head and spit repeatedly. _Well, at least he’s not coo-coo for demon puffs._

“You want the blood for the road?” the woman asked, wiping her hands on her jeans.

“I want the key to his cuffs and directions to whoever is taking my money.” Dean stared her down, silently telling her to step away from his purchase.

She didn’t seem all that perturbed, but she did what he asked. “Here’s the key. Kent can tell you where the counter is.” She gave Demon Boy a final stare, long and hard and cold, and then she walked away.

“Don’t worry. He’s not that bad. Kelly just doesn’t like him.”

Dean looked at Kent, who was still standing next to Demon Boy, who was still hacking up a lung. Dean recognized the voice; Kent must have been the one that tried to coax Demon Boy into willful cooperation.

“He’s normally non-violent and obedient.” Kent gave Demon Boy a sideways look and a little smirk. “If somebody came to snip me for screwing around after four years with no sex, I think I’d bite’em, too.” 

Dean scowled, glancing at Demon Boy before looking back at Kent. Kent had kind eyes, and Dean briefly wondered what he was doing in the Hunter Black Market. “They what now?”

“He started screwing one of the other psychics and got caught. They went to sterilize him and…” Kent made a loud ‘chomping’ sound effect, seeming quite pleased. “Kelly had to get fourteen stitches in her arm, but he wound up sterilized anyway; then they went ahead and bumped up his auction date, which I thought it was a bit excessive, but hey,” he shrugged, “I don’t get paid for my opinion. Point is, I don’t think you’ll have trouble with him as long as you don’t plan to mess with his junk.”

Dean snorted and held up his hands. “No junk-messing here. Just need his help with hunts and stuff. If he wants to get laid, I’ll take him to a strip joint or something.”

“I think he’d appreciate that.” Kent laughed and pointed down the aisle in the direction his coworker had gone. “Once you’re ready, head down that way, hang a left, and go straight until you’re through the double doors.” He started to walk as he spoke, moving in the opposite direction of where he was sending them. “Good luck!”

 _Finally._ Dean turned to Demon Boy and grabbed his wrists, making quick work of the lock. “You fight me, you die.” He tossed the lock aside, untwisted the chains, and let go.

Demon Boy fell forward immediately, one hand holding him up while two fingers on the other dove down his throat.

“Woah, hey now.” Dean pulled on Demon Boy’s arms, but the Boy was both stubborn and stronger than he looked. “Cas, can you make him puke without him having to stick his hand down his gullet?”

Castiel tilted his head in that confused way he often did. “But gagging yourself is an effective method to induce vomiting. That is what we want.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t happen right away, and the whole sitting-there-with-your-fingers-down-your-throat thing isn’t exactly fun.” Dean had learned that firsthand when he and his dad encountered a nasty case of food poisoning. “Plus, if he’s done this before, he probably has a tolerance built up. It’s gonna suck, man.”

“Dean, the angels cannot sense you, but they _can_ sense me. I would like to avoid using my so-called ‘mojo’ as much as poss—”

Demon Boy pulled his fingers out and heaved, spewing blood and bile onto the floor. Dean reached out and pulled Demon Boy’s hair back, noting the violent flinch his actions caused, and once Dean had the matted locks in one hand, he rubbed Demon Boy’s back with the other.

“You need a freakin’ haircut, Rapunzel.” Dean gave a few hard pats and rubbed again as the heaving subsided. “You alright?”

The Boy responded by shoving his fingers down his throat again.

“Really? Do we really—?” He looked up. “Cas, does he still have blood in him?”

Castiel nodded seriously. “Yes, quite a bit.”

Dean cursed under his breath. “How much is quite a bit?”

“It’s the healthy amount for a man his age and weight.”

Dean somehow _didn’t_ roll his eyes—probably because it had begun to hurt—and shook his head. “How much _demon_ blood?”

“He is technically a mix—”

“In his _stomach,_ Cas.”

But it didn’t matter, because Demon Boy was throwing up again, and what came out only had occasional streaks of red.

Dean looked away so he wouldn’t wind up joining the Barf Squad, and he gave Demon Boy’s back a few more rubs. _He’s got a lot of scars. They’re pretty smooth, though, nothing seriously torn up or burned._ He frowned, wondering what Demon Boy’s pants were hiding. _It doesn’t look like anything happened in the last few months, but it could just be hidden._

Demon Boy finally stopped heaving and tried to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand, but his remaining arm couldn’t support his weight.

“Woah!” Dean caught him before he hit the floor and pulled him up. “Don’t want to fall in that.” He grunted, trying to shift his legs so he could lay Demon Boy down. “Don’t help or anything, Cas, just stand there and watch.”

“That’s what I’m doing, Dean.”

Some days, Dean had to wonder if Castiel was really as clueless as he seemed, or if he was just a sassy little fricker; the longer Dean knew Castiel, the more he thought it was the latter.

But Dean didn’t reply, he simply rolled his eyes—yup, it was definitely starting to hurt—and carefully lowered Demon Boy onto his side. “There we go.”

Dean crouched down, careful to avoid the mess, and unlocked the chains around Demon Boy’s ankles. For a moment, he thought the Boy had wet himself, but then he realized the clothes were soaked in sweat.

_He must have been fighting hard._

“M’sorry,” Demon Boy mumbled in an unexpectedly small voice, trying to push himself up only to collapse again.

“Psh. Yeah, you better be real sorry for puking your guts out. How dare you blow chunks in my presence?” Dean spoke with thick sarcasm, but he could have sworn he saw another flinch. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

Castiel approached then, apparently ready to do something helpful, and crouched on Demon Boy’s other side. “You make payment,” he ordered, pulling the Boy into his arms. “I’ll take him to the car.”

“Do it _normally_. His stomach’s been through enough for one night.” Dean stood up and started walking down the aisle—let someone who got paid clean up the mess—with Castiel on his heels.

“I can walk.” Demon Boy spoke in a near whisper, arms folded over his stomach, panting heavily against Castiel’s chest. “I just—just got sick, s’all.”

“You look like you’ve had a rough time.” _You know, the whole ‘limbs shaking so bad you can’t support yourself’ thing?_ “Just let Cas carry you.”

“Yes, sir,” the Boy offered quietly.

Castiel didn’t comment save for a tilt of the head.

“So,” Dean rubbed his hands together, pushing the door to the secondary back room open. “We got the infamous Boy with the Demon Blood. Now what?”

“We keep him from becoming Lucifer’s vessel,” Castiel replied simply.

“Right. I meant _how_ do we do that? We can’t kill him or scramble his brains or anything; Hell will just bring him back and patch him up.” Dean walked up to the counter and knocked to get the worker’s attention.

 _Wow, he looks a lot like Kent. Brothers, maybe?_ “You need my number?” _Capturing Monsters, Selling Them—The Family Business._

“Yup, and then I need his ear,” Not Kent replied, pulling a file out and scanning the content.

Dean found the request odd, but he handed the number over and pulled out his checkbook. “Cas, help the guy with the ear thing.”

Castiel mumbled something about Demon Boy being unresponsive, but he did what Dean asked and held the Boy where the worker could reach.

Dean wrote down the appropriate amount, sparing a glance when he heard a metallic crunch. He wrote the date and spared another glance when the sound repeated. When he heard it a third time, he finally addressed the elephant in the room.

“What’s that?” Dean asked, leaning forward to see what was now in Demon Boy’s ear.

“Blue means he’s sterile, green means any past records we have or locate in the future will come to you, black means he’s powerful enough that hunters who come across him should shoot first and ask questions later, and this…” Not Kent put the plastic stem of a tag through a gauged hole in Demon Boy’s cartilage, snapping it to the rest of the tag once it was through, “…tells people you actually paid for him.”

“Oh, that’s nice.” Dean sighed and looked down at his checkbook, hesitating one last time before signing and tearing it out.

Dean handed it over with more than a little pain in his chest. _It’s important. It’s important. It’s important._ That was his mantra as he walked away from the counter, feeling a little bit numb. _Sam’s out there somewhere. You’re doing this to protect the world, and that includes him. You have to protect him from the apocalypse just as much as you have to find and provide for him. It’s all important. It’s important._

“Dean.”

Dean pulled himself from his thoughts and looked to his right.

Castiel stared down at Demon Boy with a bewildered expression. “He’s very stiff, and he barely responded to the piercing process even though it was clearly painful.”

 _Oh, yeah, he did say something about that._ Dean glanced at Demn Boy and froze on the spot, struck by the sheer terror he saw in those glassy, caramel eyes.

Castiel stopped walking when he saw Dean had done the same, confusion furrowing his brow. “Dean?”

“H-how?” Demon Boy croaked, his voice barely above a whisper. “How do you know about—about the—about me and Lucifer and—and what I’m supposed to do, and—how?”

“Woah, back up.” Dean started walking again, and under the pretense of carefully wording his reply, he waited until they were halfway across the parking lot to speak again. “You know about Lucifer? I mean, I figured you knew about demons, but you know Hell’s Head Honcho is wearing you to the prom?”

Demon Boy offered a hesitant nod, shaking in Castiel’s arms. Dean doubted it was from the cold; even with his sweaty clothes and the late hour, it was still the middle of August in Alabama. No, he was afraid.

The Boy with the Demon Blood was afraid—trembling with terror, swallowing hard, eyes frantic _afraid—_ of Dean Winchester.

“How do _you_ know about Lucifer?” Dean turned Demon Boy’s question back at him.

“I…” For a moment, Demon Boy looked like he was considering talking, but then he closed his mouth and shook his head. He seemed to shrink in on himself, shivering harder while his hands traveled up toward his head, subconsciously trying to curl protectively around his skull.

Dean arched a brow and came to a stop next to the Impala, opening the back door. “You know we’re gonna get it out of you. It’ll be easier on all of us if you just tell me how you know what you know.”

“I’d rather die.” Demon Boy’s voice cracked, but there was a disturbing amount of sincerity in his response, but was it loyalty or more fear?

Dean was inclined to think it was the latter.

Castiel sighed softly, irritated with Demon Boy’s behavior. “We already covered this. Hell would just bring you back.” He half placed, half shoved the Boy into the backseat of the car, surprise ghosting across his features when Demon Boy scrambled to the other end of the car and wedged himself between the front and back seats.

Dean frowned.

Castiel straightened up and shut the car door, turning to face Dean with a weary sigh. “We know what our first objective is, at least.”

Dean looked in the window and saw Demon Boy curled up tightly, clutching his own head. “Yeah. I was hoping we wouldn’t hit a roadblock right away, but… it is what it is, I guess.”

Castiel frowned. “We aren’t driving yet. How can we—”

“Just shut up and get in,” Dean deadpanned.

Castiel vanished instead. _Classic._ If Dean was lucky, Castiel went to Bobby’s. If Dean was unlucky—and most days he was—he wouldn’t hear from Castiel for days.

Dean heaved a sigh and got in the Impala, looking into his rearview mirror as soon as he was seated. Demon Boy was squishing himself into a space entirely too small for his ginormous self, and Dean couldn’t imagine it was very comfortable curling up on the floor between the passenger seat and backseat when you were that tall. Thankfully, it looked like he was too preoccupied with cowering in terror to have noticed Castiel _vanishing into thin air_ , so it worked out in Dean’s favor in the end.

“Cas has his own ride, so you and I get to spend some quality time together. Yay!” Dean started the engine and put the car in reverse. “You got a name, Boy with the Demon Blood? ‘Cause I’m really tired of calling you Demon Boy in my head.”

Demon Boy just barely lifted his head. “Sam, sir.”

Dean felt a stab in his chest. “Think you could pick something else?”

Demon Boy’s reply was an immediate and submissive, “You can call me whatever you want, sir,” but Dean had seen the already faint light in his eyes go out.

“Your real name’s Sam, isn’t it?” Dean sighed through the question, putting Baby in drive and making his way toward the exit.

“You can call me whatever you want, sir,” came the echoed response.

Dean sighed again, annoyed. “Just answer the question, Demon Boy.”

“…Yes, sir,” came the faint whisper. “My name is Sam.”

Dean felt that pain again, but he could see why the name was so important. Demon Boy had no identity outside of the roles he was ‘destined’ to play, so having something that reminded him of personhood… it was probably rare and precious to him. Not that Dean cared what Lucifer’s Prom Dress found precious, but… _geeze_ , he looked so miserable and afraid and alone.

_People meet people with their siblings’ names all the time. It’s not a big deal. It’s just a name. What’s in a name, right? There’s My Sam and there’s Demon Blood Psychic Sam. I went to school with a Sam. I worked a job with a Sam, once. It’s a common name, there’s probably a million people named Sam. It’s not the same Sam, so it’s all good._

It was that thought and that thought only that let him look into the mirror and say, “Got it, Sam.”

In a way, it was kind of ironic. Dean refused to spend His Sam’s money for decades, and when he finally did cave in the name of the greater good, he wound up getting Demon Blood Psychic Sam. It was painfully ironic, especially because Demon Blood Psychic Sam was… well, psychic… with demon blood. Demon Blood Psychic Sam was the kind of thing Dean would hunt with His Sam.

_My life is one great, big cosmic joke._

He hoped someone was laughing, because he sure wasn’t, and it would be a crying shame if his life sucked so much for nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hey, wake up. We’re stopping here for the night.”

Sam jolted awake, his arm flailing uselessly as he attempted to regain control of his body. _Ow._ His entire body ached, no doubt because he spent his nap sandwiched on the floor of an old sports car, and his ear was throbbing. _I must’ve slept on it._ His crotch hurt, too. _Screw you, Kelly._ He couldn’t, for obvious reasons, but in general.

“Not getting any younger out here, snowflake.”

Sam took a moment to process the new voice, to process that it had already spoken once, and then he sprang into action, heart jumping into his throat. _I have a new owner._ He had a new owner, and his new owner knew what he was going to become and all but promised torture if he didn’t talk.

Sam clambered out of the vehicle and hung his head, hoping he wouldn’t be in trouble. He was in more than enough pain already. “Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t apologize, just get your butt in gear.” Dean—if he recalled correctly—gave him a shove and slung a duffel bag over his shoulder. “We’ve still got nine hours of driving ahead of us.”

Sam nodded and got out of the way, waiting for Dean to take the lead and falling in step behind him. _I can’t believe I made such a massive mistake._

He had just been so shocked.

Sam had been traded between several different hunters, and none of them knew much of anything about Heaven or Hell or angels. They knew about demons, but only the grunts; they didn’t know about anyone or anything important. Azazel. Alastair. Irzameg. Crowley.

Hearing Dean and his strange friend talk about Lucifer so casually… it threw Sam off. Getting holes punched in his ear jarred him, but only enough for him to stupidly utter a half-coherent sentence that tipped his hand much farther than he meant to.

_That’s a nice excuse, Sam, but it doesn’t negate the consequences._

Sam felt a chill run up his spine, Azazel’s voice ringing in his ears.

_“I only missed one time, and it was because I got dirt in my eyes, Azazel, please!”_

_“That’s a nice excuse, Sam, but it doesn’t negate the consequences.”_

_“I tried to stay above water, I swear, but my arms gave out!”_

_“That’s a nice excuse, Sam, but it doesn’t negate the consequences.”_

_“I wasn’t daydreaming, it was a vision! I—I can’t control them, you know I can’t!”_

_“That’s a nice excuse, Sam, but Earth to Sam, come in Sam. This is Captain Dean Winchester of the SS Snap-Out-Of-It speaking. You look like a junkie.”_

Sam shook himself and blinked rapidly. “Sorry, sir.” It fell from his lips automatically.

“Geeze.” Dean snorted and walked into the motel room, waiting for Sam to follow. “Maybe some sleep will get your head screwed on straight.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam stepped inside the room and got out of the way so Dean could close the door. _Right. Sleep._

Sleep would have been wonderful, but Sam knew he wouldn’t be so fortunate. Between the headaches and vivid nightmares, he would be up every hour, on the hour, without a doubt.

“I don’t want the window bed. Don’t ask.” Dean slung his duffel onto the bed closest to him and disappeared into the bathroom. “Do I need to handcuff you?”

Sam almost laughed. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been restrained by an owner. He had learned long ago that running away never worked. It only caused pain. Taking a beating like a man hurt less in the long run than trying to run from the consequences like a coward.

“That’s up to you, sir,” was all Sam said.

Because he had also learned long ago that hunters loved to test people and trusted no one, least of all psychics. There was no point in answering honestly; nobody believed him and everyone tended to do the exact opposite of what he said. Better to push the decision back on them and hope for the best.

“Good answer.”

Sam heard the toilet flushing and then the hiss of running water, and a few seconds later, Dean walked back out, wiping his hands on his pants.

“Better hit the head before I cuff you, or you’re screwed ‘til morning.”

Sam gave a slight nod and entered the bathroom, keeping a fair amount of space between him and Dean. So far, Dean had been alright, like the hunters Sam once considered to be the standard; not too friendly, not too cruel, sometimes cold in temperament and often possessing a hot temper, but just and fair and doing their best to better the world around them.

Sam rebuttoned the slit in his sweatpants and turned on the sink, waiting for the water to warm up. _Dean seems like a good hunter._

But that didn’t mean Dean was safe.

Once upon a time, in a faraway land Sam liked to call Blissful Ignorance, he had believed good hunters were the only hunters. He figured if someone was attacked by a supernatural creature and decided to grow bitter and angry about it, they wouldn’t dedicate their lives to saving other people. Cruel people became serial killers and gang members and human traffickers, not hunters.

Then Sam became the property of one Gordon Walker.

Seventy-two days after Sam was purchased, Gordon Walker changed without explanation and shattered any sense of stability Sam had ever had. None of the rules Sam knew applied; most of the time, it didn’t seem there were any rules at all. Nothing had purpose or plan, and thus, nothing was predictable. There was only pain and fear and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It took seventy-two days for that to happen, and honestly? That damaged Sam more than Gordon’s fists ever had.

Had any of his owners been genuine, or had he simply not pushed them to their limit before being sold to someone else? Did every hunter have a different rulebook? Had he been breaking rules without realizing it, slowly testing their patience a little bit at a time? Did rulebooks even exist, or had Sam just applied survival skills to a bad situation and called it a guideline? Either way, if Sam screwed up enough, would all hunters beat him senseless and make him sleep in the cold? Last but definitely not least, was there any way Sam could find the line without crossing it and proceed to avoid it like the plague?

Sam still didn’t know the answer. He only knew things changed after that.

Gordon often loaned him out to a hunter called Kubrick, who was convinced everything that came out of Sam’s mouth was a lie; why Kubrick ever rented him at all, Sam still didn’t know. Then Gordon made a mistake in Las Vegas, and if he wanted to stay alive, he had to go underground for a while, so he sold Sam to another hunter. Sam was grateful it wasn’t Kubrick, but it was a far cry from the standard he had misguidedly developed. Travis was brutal, though not necessarily with Sam. For Travis, the hunt trumped all. Sam would never forget the screams he heard as he watched a warehouse go up in flames, all for a couple ghouls that hadn’t done anything but eat people who were already dead.

Sam shook his head and tried to pull himself out of his past, a dull throb forming behind his eyes. _None of that is important. Focus._ But it was important—it’s importance was how he wound up staggering down memory lane in the first place—because he needed to remember the way things had shifted.

Because Sam didn’t know where Dean’s line was.

Could Dean make it seventy-two days? More? Less?

How cruel was Dean when he was angry? How easy was it to _make_ him angry?

Sam didn’t know. And Dean had a laid-back, easygoing air about him that made Sam feel less keyed up. It felt safe, which was more terrifying than any amount of rage. It felt non-malicious—kind, almost.

But where was the line?

“Dude, I don’t wanna make this awkward, but… you okay in there?”

Sam startled and stuck his hands under the scalding flow he had forgotten about, letting the pain ground him in the present. “Uh, y-yeah. Yes, sir. I’m okay.”

Sam finished washing his hands, turned off the water, and grabbed the other towel. He dried his hands and stepped into the room, making his way over to the window bed, where Dean was waiting with a pair of handcuffs. “Sorry, sir.”

“Dude, it’s fine, and stop it with the ‘sir’ stuff. It’s weird. I’m, like, thirty.”

Sam bit his lip and a nodded twice. _Don’t look him in the eye._

“So, I gotta cuff you to the leg of the bed.” Dean knocked on the solid headboard to indicate the problem. “You can lay on your stomach, right?”

Sam offered a quick nod and crawled onto the mattress, laying facedown and extending his hand for Dean to handle as he pleased. _He gave me a bed._

Gordon, after his change, kept Sam in a dog kennel, which he kicked to make Sam shut up during nightmares and painful visions.

Azazel let Sam sleep in a bed fit for a prince… unless he was mad; then Sam slept anywhere from the cold, hard ground in the dead of winter to a bed of glass and nails.

Dean gave him a simple motel bed. Dean was nice.

But where was the line?

“So, gonna go ahead and make things awkward again.”

Sam turned his head to look, staring at Dean’s chin.

Dean scratched at his brow and shifted awkwardly. “How’s your, uh… I don’t know anything about… how _that_ works… but it sounded like it happened pretty recently, and…” He ran a hand through his hair and looked at the wall in the opposite direction, exhaling loudly. “How’s your junk? That’s what I’m asking. I’m asking you to give me an update on your unmentionables. It’s a thing I do. Buy guys and take’em to a cheap motel, handcuff them to a bed, and ask them questions about the family jewels. It’s my favorite pastime.”

Sam tensed slightly, considering the question for a few moments. He _was_ sore—if he had been given a proper recovery, he would have been fine, but Sam didn’t get to have nice things—but he was afraid of what Dean would do. Even if Dean didn’t intend to hurt him… what if Dean tried to fix the problem himself, regardless of whether or not he could? Hunters always handled their own first aid, and they had always handled Sam’s, when he needed it.

“Um…” Sam squirmed slightly, wishing he was under the blanket. “It’s sore, but it’s okay, sir.” He flinched almost as soon as he finished the phrase. “Not sir. Sorry, s—Dean. Sorry, Dean.”

Dean let out a sigh, but it didn’t sound angry, just sort of… confused. Sad, maybe, and a little bit lost. “How about I give you some ibuprofen?”

“You don’t have to.” But it would have been really nice, because Sam had been sore for a week, and he knew that was too long, and relief was a tantalizing notion.

“I know I don’t.” Dean walked over to his bag and dug through it for a moment before pulling out a bottle. He twisted off the cap and shook two pills into his hand, putting the rest away and disappearing into the bathroom for a moment. He returned to the side of the bed and put the pills in Sam’s free hand, holding out a cup of water. “Here.”

Sam took them and put them in his mouth, cautiously reaching out and taking the offered drink. He used as much of the water as he could to down the pills, not knowing when he would get a drink again, and then he handed the cup back.

Dean gave him a frown. “Go ahead and finish it. It’s fine.”

Sam slowly pulled the cup closer, watching Dean with cautious eyes, and then he quickly drank the rest. “Thank you,” he said softly, licking his lips.

Dean took the empty cup with a hum and set it on the nightstand. “You good?”

Sam nodded and turned his head so he could put his eyes on the window. _Don’t look at him. He might think you’re doing some psychic thing._ He steadied his breathing as Dean turned out the light. _If they find out about the camp… if I tell them I was bred and raised and trained to be Lucifer’s Vessel…_

They couldn’t kill him, and they couldn’t maim him, and they knew that.

They could, however, retrain him. They could tear apart everything Azazel had pounded into Sam’s head from the time he was born and fix him up however they wanted. They could fracture his mind into a million pieces and stick it back together with rubber cement.

Sam’s eyes burned at the mere thought.

_I can’t do that again. I can’t. I just can’t._

But it wasn’t up to him, and if they decided he would, then he would. That was the most terrifying part; the utter helplessness, the staring into the fire and hoping against hope you wouldn’t have to walk through it, the getting no clear answer one way or the other.

 _Dear God… I don’t know if You listen when… when someone like me prays, but…_ Sam repressed the sobs threatening to shake his shoulders; he couldn’t afford to attract Dean’s attention. _God, please help me… I don’t care how… and it doesn’t have to be right now… I can wait, I just… I just need to know someone, somewhere is gonna help me. Please. Please, please, please… I can’t do this anymore… I just can’t… please…_

Sam prayed until he passed out.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean was torn between the urge to murder and the urge to hug. It was an odd combination, to be sure, and honestly, Dean wasn’t even sure exactly how he got to that point. He assumed it was a slow buildup of the things that had happened since he woke up.

Sam had looked miserable all morning, eyes red and slightly swollen and underlined with dark circles that said he hadn’t slept hardly at all. Once Dean had uncuffed him, he sat at the foot of the bed with his hands in his lap, not moving or speaking until Dean told him to take a shower—partly because he needed one and partly because he kept staring at the bathroom longingly when he thought Dean wasn’t looking. Afterward, Dean had caught Sam trying to clean his ear in the sink and succeeding only in causing himself pain when he got the studs caught in his hair. Dean had swatted the shaking hands away, taking Sam’s ear between his own fingers and holding it under the icy flow.

It wasn’t long before Dean had needed to mumble, “You can stop holding your breath. I’m not gonna stick your head under, Sam.”

Sam had apologized.

Dean couldn’t give Sam a pair of pants—Dean happened to have relatively _normal_ leg length—so he had sprayed the ones Sam already had with whatever body spray he had picked up at the last Dollar General. He had given Sam a clean t-shirt and a flannel, and after a good two minutes spent convincing Sam that it was okay if the wounds on his back bled a little and stained the shirt, he had ushered Sam out to the Impala.

Getting Sam to sit shotgun had been another ordeal of its own, as was convincing him to order what he was hungry for instead of the cheapest thing at the drive-thru. But then, finally, they were on the road, dressed and cleaned and in the process of being fed, and things looked like _maybe_ they were going to go smoothly for a while.

And then the light went from green to yellow, and the person in front of Dean was _apparently_ a virtuous driver, so they slammed their brakes. Naturally, Dean slammed _his_ breaks, and naturally, the coffee Sam had been adding creamer to spilled half its contents.

Dean let out a loud curse and looked around for something to clean up the mess. He looked to his left, but there was nothing in the door, so he looked to his right, his body turning toward Sam and bringing his arm with it.

“Please, don’t hit me!” Sam put his arms up, doing his best to hold the coffee steady so he wouldn’t spill any more, pushing himself against the door. “It was an accident. I’ll clean it up, just—you don’t have to hit me. You don’t have to teach me a lesson. I already know how clumsy I am, and I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Dean stared, stunned speechless until a car behind him honked. He honked back and threw a gesture out the window before driving under the overpass and getting back on the highway. He kept both hands on the wheel, and he somehow managed not to get so distracted he slowed down or drifted.

And Dean sat there, torn between the urge to murder and the urge to hug.

“I’m not gonna hit you, Sam. There’s an old t-shirt behind my seat. I use it as a shop rag. Just… grab that and clean up the coffee.” He felt numb, like someone else was speaking the words, and he was just another passenger, listening in.

Sam tried to keep his distance and reach for the rag at the same time, and Dean was glad he had to watch the road, because he didn’t want to see—didn’t even want to _imagine_ —the look on Sam’s face.

“I’m really sorry,” Sam whispered, and there was another plea for mercy hidden in his tone.

Dean cleared his throat and nodded, staring dead ahead. “I know. It’s fine.”

Sam was silent for a moment, but then he braved a whisper. “I made you angry.”

Dean actually turned at that, and he offered Sam a small, pathetic excuse for a smile. “Nah.”

Sam stared back at him, and it was clear in his eyes that he didn’t believe what Dean was telling him, but he didn’t object. He simply cleaned up the mess he had made, putting the majority of his attention on the leather seats instead of his sweatpants.

“You okay?” Dean glanced his way again. “Didn’t get burned, did you?”

Sam shook his head. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Good.” Dean nodded a few times. “Good, good…”

He didn’t know what else to say. What else _could_ he say? Dean had no idea what made up the first twenty-six years of Sam’s life, but somewhere along the line, things had gone horribly wrong. Maybe it was the demon blood, or Hell, or one of his owners, or a hunt that went south—maybe it didn’t matter—but whatever it was, it went beyond a general suspicion of hunters.

It wasn’t the same as suspecting Dean had ulterior motives for offering clothing. It wasn’t the same as thinking Dean might hold his head underwater because Dean was a hunter, and Sam was a monster, and that was the natural order of things. It wasn’t the same as not wanting to ride shotgun because Dean would be able to scrutinize every move Sam made without taking his eyes off the road.

It was believing Dean was going to hit him—and given Sam’s pain threshold, hit him _hard_ —for something as simple as spilling coffee.

It killed Dean. It killed him much more than he thought a monster’s sob story ever could.

Sam hadn’t shouted, either, and that might have been the worst part for Dean. Sam had pleaded for mercy in soft, subdued tones, just like in the stockroom the night before. Dean thought of that—thought of those fragile whispers—and then thought of the bruises and scars, the forced sterilization, the force-feeding, the fear.

Dean thought of Sam, tall and broad-shouldered and powerful, cowering in the corner like a child and whimpering for mercy. He thought of Sam, who had to know how pointless it was to beg, pleading anyway because a fragile hope still flickered in the darkness.

Because maybe Dean was different. Maybe Dean was kind. Maybe Dean knew Sam really _had_ learned his lesson, and really _was_ sorry, and really _didn’t_ need to be hit again, and again, and again, and _please not again._

And Dean knew—really, he did—that Sam was a psychic and a monster and a demon; he knew demons were master manipulators, and he knew Sam was a big player in the upcoming championship; he knew what John would say if he were there, knew what Castiel would say, knew what Bobby would say.

But those _eyes._ That cornered animal, that scared little boy hiding in the glassy, amber glaze as it slowly gave way to the expanding pool of black in the center.

Dean would never forget those eyes.

“So, since you’re a hairless sasquatch, I don’t have any pants that are gonna fit you.” Dean drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he spoke, still unable to look in Sam’s direction. “We’ll hit up a couple thrift stores on our way and see what we can find.”

Sam leaned away slightly and gave Dean a cautious look. “I don’t have any money.”

“No, really?” Dean rolled his eyes. “I’m buying, Einstein.”

“I haven’t had any visions lately.” Sam was still suspicious, and his hands had started trembling again. “I can’t give you anything helpful.”

“Dude, it’s clothes.” Dean waved it off, hoping to banish Sam’s fear with nonchalance. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

Sam seemed hesitant to argue, but words still wound up coming out of his mouth. “But I haven’t done anything to earn clothing.”

Dean looked at him briefly, one brow sharply arched, before turning his eyes back to the road. “You don’t _earn_ clothes, Sam.” But Sam had clearly been required to do exactly that multiple times, or he wouldn’t have assumed, so Dean continued. “Not under my roof. Got it?”

Sam’s eyes were still uneasy, but he dropped the subject with a single nod.

“Good.” Dean gave a nod of his own to show he was pleased.

They sat in silence for a minute or so, and then Dean heaved a sigh.

“You know what? I’m just gonna ask. What happened to screw you up so bad?” Dean glanced his way, trying to keep an eye on both Sam and the road. “Who made you so freakin’ jumpy, huh?”

Sam didn’t answer right away, jaw setting and eyes glued to the window. He took a deep breath; the glass steamed up when he exhaled. “Lots of things happened. Lots of people did those things.”

Dean sighed and merged into the left lane, picking up speed. “Don’t give me vague, melodramatic bullcrap. I know that you know that I know something happened to make you act like the kid from Pete’s Dragon, so spill.”

Sam gave him an odd look—the uncultured swine probably didn’t know what Pete’s Dragon was—and then turned his attention the world beyond the window. “I just belonged to a guy who kinda flipped a bit.”

Dean squinted at the road. “Kinda flipped a bit? What does that even mean?”

“I mean he was normal, and then… he kinda flipped a bit.” Sam pressed a little closer to the door. “It—it doesn’t matter anymore. He didn’t do any permanent damage.”

 _That’s debatable._ Dean turned his music down a little more—not that it had been all that loud to begin with—and tried to speak in a marginally softer tone. “So, he’s the one who beat the crap out of you for stupid stuff like spilling coffee?”

Sam shrugged his shoulders with a sideways kind of nod, and Dean figured that was as close to a ‘yes’ as he was going to get.

Dean sighed. “Well, you can relax. I won’t lie and say I don’t have a temper, but if you don’t hit me, I won’t hit you.”

Sam snorted, and for a brief moment, Dean thought he saw who Sam might have been if life had treated him a little bit differently. “You think your word means something to me?”

Dean opened his mouth to object, but technically Sam was right. They were practically strangers, and Dean had bought Sam like merchandise and handcuffed him to a bed. Why _would_ Sam trust him?

“I’m sorry.” Sam covered his mouth, eyes blown wide, horrified by his own behavior. “I’m—I didn’t—I don’t—”

“No, no, you made a good point.” Dean held up his hands in a placating gesture, driving with his knee for a second. “You don’t have to trust me, but for the record, it’s out there. No beating of Demon-Blooded Psychic Sams shall taint this hunter’s hands.” He lifted his hands again for dramatic flair, and then he took the wheel back. “So long as you get your job done, you can think whatever you want about me.”

Silence fell between them once again, and Dean found he preferred the silence of driving alone to the silence of lacking conversation. It had never been that way with his dad—they could sit in silence for hours, and Dean would feel they had drawn closer just by being in the same vehicle. Silence with Sam was _not_ like that.

“What, uh…” Sam cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “What exactly… _is_ my job?”

Dean kept his voice hard and commanding when he answered. “Saying no to Lucifer.”

“And… if I don’t?” Sam ventured, already leaning away from Dean in anticipation.

Dean pinned him with a glare. “Not optional. Because _my_ job is making sure you do yours.”

Sam turned his gaze out the window with a jerky nod, and Dean let the subject drop. It didn’t seem like Sam was all that bent on resistance, he was just perpetually terrified.

“How, did… um, how did you… get involved in all… this?” Sam scratched idly at his pantleg, pulling on a hole in the seam and making it slightly wider. “If that’s okay to ask, I mean.”

Dean pursed his lips slightly and kept his eyes set dead ahead. “Hunting or the apocalypse?”

Sam hesitated before offering an uncertain, “Both?”

Dean pressed his lips together and nodded, gripping the wheel a little tighter. It was a fair question, and Dean couldn’t blame Sam for asking it, but it had the potential to run down all of Dean’s least favorite conversational paths.

“Well, uh, a demon killed my mom and kidnapped my baby brother. Dad and I… we hunted that thing for years… Dad died before he could see how it ended, but I finished the job a couple years ago. I’d like to think I finished it for both of us.”

Dean sniffed, which was odd, because his eyes weren’t watering. “But, uh, but I didn’t do it alone. I lost… the only family I had left in that fight, and…” He blinked hard to clear away the image of Bobby’s lifeless body in the mud, propped against a tombstone with a cracked, bloody skull. “I, uh, I couldn’t cope. Made a crossroads deal, my soul for his life, and they gave me a year.”

Sam listened intently, and every time Dean looked over, he met a pair of riveted and jarringly innocent hazel eyes.

Dean cleared his throat and reached over to roll up his t-shirt sleeve, showing Castiel’s handprint as best he could while driving. “Went to Hell last year, an angel pulled me out after four months, same angel said I had a mission. I said ‘screw that,’ found out the other angels were up to no good, my angel buddy rebelled and joined me, and now we’re gonna ice the Devil.” Talk about a cliff notes version.

Sam’s eyes went wide at the last part, an almost hopeful note entering his voice. “Can you—can you do that?”

“I hope so, ‘cause if not, we’re screwed.” Dean shrugged his shoulders. “I figure, y’know, Hell wasn’t supposed to be able to open the Cage without you, and they found out a way around it, so… I’m gonna find a way around the apocalypse.”

Sam bit his lip and cast his eyes downward. He sipped the coffee that had caused him so much trouble and then looked out the window. Apparently, going anywhere near Sam’s involvement in the workings of Hell was still a quick way to shut the conversation down.

“Castiel—that’s my angel buddy, the trench coat guy—called this morning while you were in the shower.” Dean tapped the wheel as he drove. “Hell worked really hard to keep you hidden. Sigils on your ribs, tattoos, spells… _essence_ _suppression_ , whatever that is. Cas said the walls in your head are like solid steel. He can’t see jack.” Dean tapped the wheel some more, matching the rhythm of the music playing softly in the background. “Cas only knew you were you at the auction because we were right on top of you.”

Sam clenched his jaw, hands shaking slightly, and he took another drink of coffee, refusing to look anywhere near Dean. His leg started to bounce a little, his breathing slightly shallowed.

“But Hell lost you, and that awesome security backfired. They couldn’t find you, Heaven couldn’t find you, _no one_ could find you.” Dean hummed to himself for a moment, switching lanes to go around a particularly slow minivan. “So, here’s what I think. I think Hell has been teaching you what to do from day one. I think you know more than you let on. What I can’t figure out is who trained you and how long they had you for, and that’s what I need from you.”

Despite the obvious nervousness Sam displayed, he kept his lips pressed together, parting them only to drink his coffee—something that looked more like a need to move than a desire for caffeine.

“Okay, let’s try this.” Dean tried to back up, get a little broader. If he could get Sam comfortable with sharing general information, then he could try moving in again. “Will you tell me what you know about demons in general?”

Sam glanced at Dean—or rather, at Dean’s knees, because he still wouldn’t look Dean in the eye—and wet his lips. “What, uh… what do you want to know?”

 _It’s a step in the right direction, at least._ “Well, the yellow-eyed demon that took my—my baby brother.” Dean cleared his throat. “He said his name was Azazel. You know anything about him?”

Sam wet his lips again and nodded, squirming in his seat for a moment. He tugged on the hole in his pants again and took another drink of coffee. “Azazel was one of the higher ups… that’s, uh, that’s why he had the yellow eyes… a lot of demons took orders from him. He, uh, he was supposed to open the Hell Gate… but I don’t know if he ever did. He just sorta dropped off the map. I never heard what happened to him, but I guess now I know.” He gestured vaguely to Dean. “Did he open the Gate before you killed him?”

Dean pressed his lips together and offered a grim nod. “I tried to stop him, but I wasn’t fast enough. I swear, that year, it was ridiculous… psychics freaking everywhere. No offense.” He gave Sam a pat on the shoulder. “But, y’know, hunter. They were killing people… ‘causing problems… and then boom. Gate of Hell has been opened.”

Sam winced but didn’t say anything, offering a slight nod as his expression grew thoughtful. “You, uh, you said he _took_ your brother? Because taking isn’t— _wasn’t_ really his style.”

Dean snorted out a bitter laugh. “Believe me, I know his style. That is one thing I do know about him.” He shook his head slowly. “He, uh… he was gloating right before I killed him. He said my brother wasn’t—wasn’t cut out for ‘the job,’ whatever that means.” Despite having two years—forty-two, if he counted his time in Hell—Dean still couldn’t get through any discussion of His Sam without stumbling over himself at least once. “He didn’t say it outright…”

_“I thought all that Winchester blood would make him strong, but… nope. He wasn’t a keeper. It was a shame, really. I had such high hopes for him.”_

“…but he pretty much told me my brother was dead.”

_“He screamed and cried and begged, but I just, tsk, I just had to get it through his thick head what a disappointment he was.”_

Dean immediately banished the memory, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. _Okay, maybe trying to question him about things that set me off wasn’t the greatest idea._ He took a deep breath and let it out. _Azazel would have said anything to get under my skin. It doesn’t mean Sam is dead._

“I’m sorry.” Sam—the current Sam, the demonic Sam—sounded genuine, though he still wouldn’t look at Dean’s face.

Dean shook it off and tried to get his mind back on the Sam he was sitting next to. “What about you? I mean, were you born into a family of demons, or was it like a… mixed-species family…?”

Sam bit down on his lip. “I don’t know. I guess so? I was told I was ‘born special’ so… it must have gotten in me somehow.” He shrugged. “I never met my parents. They’re dead now, so I guess it doesn’t matter anyway.”

Dean frowned slightly, and then he frowned a little deeper. “It sounds like you weren’t exactly a willing participant in Hell’s plan for you.”

Sam said nothing, but his silence was answer enough.

“So, why won’t you tell us what they did to you?” Dean’s face scrunched up with confusion. “What, is it like… Stockholm Syndrome or something?”

Sam was once again quiet, his eyes glued to the scenery beyond his window.

 _Well, that went downhill fast._ Still, Dean had gotten _some_ information out of the kid. It wasn’t much, but it was a start, and Dean was starting to get the idea that Sam could be swayed with a nonviolent approach. If he could just figure out what heinous thing Sam thought would happen if he talked…

“Azazel had two kids that I know of. Irzameg and Sarnathul. I don’t know what they’ve been up to lately, but… maybe they could provide useful information.”

Dean let the faintest of smiles pull at his lips. “Okay. Thanks, Sam.”

Sam hummed with a little nod and pressed himself against the door.

It was a start. If nothing else, it was a start.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mild Language. 
> 
> I know I never put swearing in my works, but you'll understand why I made an exception once you see it. It shows up a couple other times in the story, but always as a reference to this chapter and always serving a purpose.

They were five hours into the drive when the migraine started.

Well, technically, that wasn’t true. It was only four and a half hours into the drive that Sam saw jagged lines of rainbow light on the road, like one of the obnoxious signs commercials used to get the viewer’s attention.

‘But wait, there’s more! For every day you spend relatively pain-free, we’ll throw in a debilitating migraine at no extra cost! Just pay shipping and handling.’

Half an hour later, the actual migraine began to set in. Dean’s music was growing progressively louder despite the knob going untouched. Outside, the sun began shining brighter, even though noon was gone and the star was on its way down for the night. Everything was suddenly moving too fast, but Dean hadn’t accelerated.

Sam briefly considered asking Dean to stop—being stationary wouldn’t stop the iron poker going into his right eye, but it might make the world stop spinning—but Sam had given Dean no reason to comply with such a request. He had refused to share information multiple times, he had spilled coffee in Dean’s car, and he had actually had the audacity to _disrespect his owner._

If he wound up sick, it was his own fault; he wasn’t going to risk bothering Dean until he absolutely had to.

Sam shifted in his seat, swallowing hard as nausea continued to swell in his stomach. _Which came first? The vision or the vomiting? The world may never know._

At least he still had his sense of humor.

House.

Sam blinked and tightened his hold on the door handle, his knuckles quickly losing color. He shut his eyes and willed the car to stop rocking, breathing in through his nose as quietly as he could and—

Blue.

—breathing out a little louder than he wanted. Dean hadn’t noticed, so Sam was good for the moment, and he took another slow breath to soothe himself. His stomach didn’t much care, and his—

Blood. Fingers. House.

—brain was being equally stubborn. For all his training and education, no one ever taught Sam how to make visions stop. No one ever cared what Sam went through as long as they got the information they wanted.

Blue. Blood. White. Static.

Sam gripped the edge of his seat with his left hand, his right one still clutching the door. “Pull over,” he muttered through clenched teeth, mouth watering, face screwing up tighter.

“What?”

“I said pull over!” Sam inhaled sharply and swallowed despite his gag reflex. “P-please.”

Sam would have been lying if he said he wasn’t surprised by Dean doing exactly as Sam asked. Of course, lying would require talking, and Sam couldn’t very well do that when he was on his hands and knees, decommissioning his breakfast into a roadside ditch.

White. House. Blue. Blue. Blue. M. K. L. Blood. Hands.

No, hands _on_ him. Hands were bad. Hands _hurt_ him, they _always_ hurt him.

Sam jerked away, but his body rejected the movement, and he heaved again. Someone was touching him, rubbing his back maybe? Sam couldn’t really tell with—

Diamond. Blood. Blue. M. K. L. Static. Recliner. White. White. White.

“Easy, buddy, take it easy. Take a deep breath.”

Sam tried to do as he was told, grabbing oxygen in little gasps.

White. Wood. Bed. Crib. Static. House.

“That’s it. Just keep breathing, it’s almost over.”

 _I hope so,_ Sam thought miserably, acid on his tongue and tears on his face.

Baby. Blanket. Blue. M. K. L. Blood. Static. Static. _Staticstaticstaticstatic—_

Black.

Sam nearly collapsed when it finally ended. He gasped for air and spat in the dirt, trying to get the sour taste out of his mouth. He was shaking, his face was a mess of snot and tears, and his abdominal muscles ached from the strain.

_If I’m going to wind up so wrecked I can’t even stand, I should at least have a vision that’s useful. I really am pathetic._

“Sam. Hey, Sam, can you hear me?” Dean appeared in front of Sam, somewhat blurry.

Sam screwed his eyes shut and tried to think. _He wants to know what I saw._ But Sam hadn’t seen anything worth seeing. _I could make something up._ But a vision that led to nowhere wasn’t a good way to start a relationship with a new owner. _But I can’t tell him I got nothing._ Not after his long list of transgressions, not if he didn’t want Dean to hit his breaking point in seventy-two hours instead of seventy-two days.

“Sam!” Dean shook him. “Sam, are you okay?”

Sam slowly opened his eyes. _What?_

Dean lightly slapped his face. “Hey, answer me. Are you okay?”

 _This is new._ Sam gave a very small nod, not wanting to move his head any more than necessary.

“What the heck was that? Was that a vision?”

 _Oh. He didn’t know. That explains it._ Sam gave another minimal nod and tried to gather his thoughts. _It was a white house, two stories… light on upstairs, with a fence—no, with a hedge._

“Does this happen every time? Pain, vomiting, junkie eyes—the works?”

Sam blinked and swallowed hard, the taste barely noticed in light of Dean’s odd behavior. Even the hunters that treated Sam fairly were quick to question him about what he did or didn’t see.

Sam blinked and opened his mouth to speak, watching in a dissociative fog as Dean got to his feet and started digging around in the trunk of the Impala. “Uh… I… I don’t always throw up, but… but the migraine… yeah.”

Dean snorted as he walked away from the back of the car, an old and ratty bandana in his hand. “You should’ve said something, idiot.” He crouched down and wiped Sam’s face, the action simultaneously rough and kind. “We could’ve pulled over a lot sooner.”

Sam let his face be wiped, confusion still weighing heavy on his already disoriented mind. “I… I didn’t think…”

Dean looked at him expectantly, tossing the bandana into the mess on the edge of the road. “Yeah? You didn’t think…?”

“I didn’t think… you would. I…” Sam swallowed, averting his eyes. “I was—I wasn’t—I didn’t behave.” He felt some heat rushing to his cheeks, and somewhere deep inside him, he was grateful he had at least a little bit of pride left.

He couldn’t make himself say, “I was bad.”

He couldn’t make himself say, “I wasn’t a good boy.”

That had to mean _some_ part of him was still a man… right?

Dean looked at Sam for a long moment, his face screwing up, and he shook his head emphatically. “Wait, what?” He shook his head again. “What did you do that was so terrible you thought I wouldn’t pull over if you asked? I mean, I know I bought you, but did you really think…?”

Sam swallowed hard as Dean trailed off, desperately wishing he had some water and a deep hole to crawl into. _Pathetic, stupid, useless._

Dean looked at Sam for a long moment, a flurry of emotions passing through his eyes, and then… he let it drop. He just let it drop, relaxing slightly, tone reverting back to its casual disposition.

“Do you need something?” Dean asked. “Like, I dunno, some recharge-y thing? Do you need to eat after you have visions?” He shook his head, openly irritated with himself. “Stupid question. You probably don’t feel like eating.”

Sam didn’t understand, and he was scared, but Dean was clearly looking for some kind of ‘fixit’ for Sam’s current state. “Uh—water would be great.” He couldn’t go wrong with water, and it was all his brain produced in the face of the unprecedented situation.

“Got it. Get back in the car, and we’ll take the first exit and get you something to drink.” Dean grabbed Sam by the arm and pulled him to his feet, slapping him on the shoulder before walking around to his side of the car and getting in.

Sam reclaimed the passenger seat in a bit of a daze, still reeling from the vision coupled with Dean’s bizarre behavior.

“You good to talk?” Dean pulled back onto the road and floored it, getting the car back up to highway speed as quickly as he could. “You see anything helpful?”

Sam wet his lips and shook his head slightly. _You could still make something up,_ a voice in his head suggested. He ignored it.

“You sure?” Dean arched a brow, his focus staying on the road. “Take a closer look, see what you can get.”

“You can’t induce a vision.” Sam cursed himself for answering so fast.

Because that was a lie. Azazel and Gordon had both discovered, in their own way, certain electrical frequencies triggered the sections of Sam’s brain that were active during visions. It wasn’t a foolproof method—in fact, it only worked about sixty-five percent of the time—but Azazel and Gordon were… persistent men. They always got a vision eventually.

“Dude, what? No. I just want you to think back and try to picture. Man, you are screwed up in the head, you know that? Seriously.”

Sam flinched away from the words. _I don’t mean to be._ He pressed his face against the cool glass of the window, relieved to find it eased the pain; that wasn’t always the case with his migraines. _If I could be normal for you, I would. I don’t like being a freak anymore than you like dealing with my freakishness, I promise._

“Just tell me what you saw.”

Sam inhaled slowly and did his best. “There was a house. It was two stories, with white siding. Inside—”

“What kind of door?”

Sam blinked. “I don’t know.”

“Think back. Is it dark or light?”

Sam closed his eyes and tried to picture the scene that had shoved its way into his mind just minutes earlier. “Um… medium, but I guess it’s light.”

“Is there porchlight above the door?”

Sam looked up slightly. “Yeah.”

“Is there a welcome mat?”

“Um…” Sam squinted, even though his eyes were already closed. “I can’t tell from here.”

“But you can see the door clearly. Is there a knocker?”

Sam nodded slowly, still picturing the home. “Yeah.”

“Look at the siding around the door. Is there a number?”

Sam strained, and the pressure did absolutely nothing to ease his migraine, but he didn’t even think about stopping. He had to do _something_ useful; not just for Dean’s approval, but for his own sanity.

“I see… three numbers. It’s…” Sam tried to pick them out, tried to piece the memory back together so there was something on that empty space. “It’s two something. 210 or 201.”  He heaved a sigh and shook his head slightly, rubbing his temples. “I can’t see. I’m sorry.”

Thankfully, Dean waved it off. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve got a little something to work with. Not much, but something.” Pause. “So, you go inside.”

Sam rubbed his temple again, trying to soothe the ice-cream-headache sensation throbbing there. “I didn’t go in, I just sort of… _appeared_ inside. I couldn’t… I couldn’t see where anything actually _was_.” Sam swallowed thickly. “Visions are like that sometimes. You don’t always get a clear picture—”

“Dude.”

Sam could _hear_ the sideways look Dean was giving him.

“Just tell me what you saw.”

Sam was hesitant. _He doesn’t know how little he’s going to get. The house was the only thing that came in clear._ But he couldn’t very well refuse.

“Um, there were fingers in blood. Not, uh, not covered, just stained, like when you wipe it off after it’s started to dry.” Sam screwed his eyes shut, moaning softly. “There was a diamond somewhere. It was small. Maybe from some jewelry? Cufflinks? Uh… there was… there was this light blue color that kept showing up. I think it was a baby blanket, in a white crib, with the initials M.K.L. embroidered in the corner. I think—I think there was a baby in the crib with the blanket.” He pressed his fingers over his eyes, but the pressure didn’t help like it normally did.

“You okay?”

Sam nodded, hands hovering but not quite pressing anymore. “Um, I definitely think there was a baby in the crib. There was—there was static. There was so much static. I couldn’t hear it, but it was black and white snow, like an old television.” He thought for a moment more, and then he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember anything else.”

Dean nodded thoughtfully, but he still didn’t seem angry. He pursed his lips, eyes still on the road, and then he grabbed his phone from the ashtray. He flipped it open and speed dialed someone, pressing the device to his ear.

Sam wet his lips, wondering what the call was for. It wouldn’t be the auction house—Dean might have claimed to want Sam for his visions, but they both knew it was really for his blood. Maybe it was his angel? Um… Castiel, right? Yeah, Castiel. But wouldn’t he just pray then?

“Bobby? Yeah, it’s Dean. I need something.”

Sam watched curiously, squinting slightly.

“You have that friend in the FBI who can locate people with parameters, right? Search all the databases and whatnot?” Dean nodded a few times. “Cool. You got something to write with?” He drummed his fingers on the wheel and merged into the exit lane. “Okay. Tell her to look for a baby boy younger than two years with the initials M.K.L. Find out how many of those boys are living in a two-story house with white siding and an address that’s either 201 or 210.” He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I _know_ it’s not a lot to go on, Bobby. Sam—that’s the demon blood guy—had a vision, and it wasn’t pretty, so if I can stop it, I’m gonna.”

Sam tried not to let ‘the demon blood guy’ bother him, but it was hard. Especially given how much unexpected kindness Dean had extended to him. Sam had actually begun to feel, for a brief moment, like maybe they could be partners or allies.

 _No, we can’t, of course we can’t. He’s a hunter. I’m the Boy with the Demon Blood. I’m Azazel’s Prodigy, and Azazel destroyed his family._ Sam shuddered slightly and turned to look out the window, only to shut his eyes when the blurring colors began to turn his stomach once more. _Azazel destroyed your family, too,_ a quiet voice reminded him.

Sam only shook his head. _It’s not the same. Dean is good. He deserves to have a family. I don’t. I’m… tainted._ Sam ignored the ache in his chest.

_“You snuck away to watch the human families again, didn’t you?”_

Sam’s face screwed up tightly, pain traveling down the back of his head and into his spine.

_“That’s not for you, Sam. You’re not human. You’re a monster. You get this camp, and you get me, and you get training, and you get Lucifer. You’re tainted, Sam. Humanity will never accept what you are. And they shouldn’t. You’re disgusting.”_

His body began to throb, the ache from his head dulling and slowly spreading. Which was worse? Sharper, localized pain or duller, generalized pain? Sam had never been able to decide.

_“You don’t deserve what they have, Sam. You’re a product of Hell. You’re an abomination. Oh, sure, we’ll have your back when it all hits the fan, but that’s tactics. Don’t delude yourself into a concept of family. Sam. You’re a freak among freaks. Sam! Humans, hunters, monsters, even the Host of Heaven—they’ll all be out for your dirty blood. Hey, Sam!”_

Sam jolted in his seat, gasping for air, heartrate skyrocketing. “Wh-what?”

Dean jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You need to hit the head?”

Sam shook his head once. _Ugh, I’m soaked._

“Okay. Watch Baby for me.”

Sam gave another absent nod and grabbed the front of his shirt, flapping it a few times in an attempt to dry the sweat. Flashbacks and midwestern summers were apparently a bad combination. Oh, and his head was still pounding. That was nice.

 _It was a white house, two stories, light on upstairs… door was a medium-light color… I think there were some evergreens in front of the porch… small trees or shrubs or something._ Sam rubbed his temple, nausea turning his stomach again. _Sidewalk going up to the porch. I don’t remember a mailbox. I don’t… I can’t see anything important._

He let out a sigh and looked out the window at the convenience store. His eyes closed almost immediately, the sunlight and its reflection on cars and windows piercing right to the core of his migraine. He tried to curl up, but the movement hurt. He tried to stretch out, and that felt a little better, but he could only stretch so far in the front seat of a car, and his stomach didn’t tolerate the position for long.

“Hey, man.” Dean got Sam’s attention as he approached the car.

Sam jumped slightly, blinking against the sun. “What…?”

“Come on, get out.” Dean opened the door and beckoned Sam with a gesture.

Confused, Sam did as he was told, watching with a cautious distance of four feet between them as Dean opened the back door. Dean pointed to the inside of the vehicle and then went to the trunk, popping it open.

Sam wet his lips and hesitantly approached the backseat. He gave it a quick onceover and crawled in, dismissing the twist of fear in his gut. _People don’t buy psychics for sex._ Not that Sam hadn’t heard a few horror stories. _Besides, Dean seems pretty straight._ Not that Sam met enough people to even know what gayness looked like compared to straightness.

“Here.” Dean interrupted Sam’s thoughts by tossing a pillow at his head. “Lay on your left side.” He put a back on the floor behind the driver’s seat. “Your water’s in there. Take two Excedrin and drink the Gatorade, too.” He leaned away from the back door for a moment and then returned with a large blanket in his arms, which he quickly opened and spread over Sam’s body. “Tuck yourself in and get some rest.”

Sam nodded dumbly and began to fiddle with the pill box, glancing up for no more than a second when Dean closed the door. _Nothing this man does makes any sense._ He couldn’t decide whether or not he liked it. He was pretty sure he did. _But will it last?_ Because as nice as Dean was, it would only make it that much more painful if he snapped.

_No. When. When he snaps, because he will._

“If the Excedrin doesn’t keep you up, get some sleep.” Dean got in the driver’s side and looked at Sam in the rearview mirror. “Let me know if you remember anything else about your vision.” Dean lowered a pair of sunglasses over his eyes and started the car, apparently not needing a response of any kind.

Sam cautiously looked over the items he had been given, suspicion coiling in the pit of his stomach. “Giving me painkillers won’t make the vision any clearer,” he said softly, opening the bottle with deliberate movements.

“Sam, I know your life sucks, but I generally don’t suck, so enjoy this. Grow a little spine back, take advantage, take care of yourself for a change. Okay?”

Sam stared, confused.

“Look, let me share some words of wisdom with you, passed down from my father to me and from me to poor saps like yourself all over the world.” Dean pulled onto the road and started picking up speed, a light smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Not everything in the world is good, but not everything in the world is bad. So, when the good stuff comes, enjoy it while it lasts, and when the bad stuff comes, don’t be a little bitch about it.” He shrugged. “Everybody’s happier that way. Trust me.”

Sam blinked a few times, throat tightening as he contemplated his reply. His lips started to move, stopped, and then started again, heart pounding in his chest. Dean was nice, and Dean was laid-back, and Dean didn’t like Sam’s submissive attitude, so there was no reason to think he would be angry at Sam for mouthing off. It wasn’t anything all that bad, either, it was just… just a little comeback. Nothing anybody would _really_ get upset about. Not even a swear word or a slur.

“Jerk.”

Dean laughed but said nothing else, apparently satisfied with Sam’s response.

Sam was fine with that. Braving the idea of a verbal clapback was exhausting, and as Sam downed the painkillers and laid back, he couldn’t help but hope sleep was on his horizon. He seemed to get better sleep in the car, and every little bit helped.

The last thought Sam had before passing out was how nice it was that Dean left his music off. Because Dean was nice.

Thankfully, Sam fell asleep before his brain could follow that train of thought to its next destination.

_Will Dean still be nice in seventy-two days?_


	5. Chapter 5

“He was out the whole time?”

Dean dropped the overstuffed thrift store bags on the floor with a grunt and straightened up, stretching out his back. “Yeah, pretty much since he hurled on the side of the road. I barely got painkillers in him before he passed out.”

Bobby hummed, rolling a little closer to the bundled form on the couch.

Dean twisted one way and then the other, every vertebra from his hips to his neck popping with the movement. “Ahh…” He cracked his neck with another sigh of relief. “He’s been unconscious ‘bout… four hours, give or take. I was gonna wake him up once we got here, but he’s out cold, and he seems like he needs it.”

Bobby hummed in agreement but still didn’t say anything, both of them examining the disheveled young man in silence.

Sam looked terrible. His hair was matted and greasy, his clothes were wrinkled and damp with sweat, and his eyes were underlined with dark bags. One ear was slightly red, and Dean was worried the piercings were headed toward an infection. Both arms were littered with defensive scars in various stages of healing, and though none of them were scabs or outright open wounds, it wasn’t as if Sam was showing a lot of skin. Overall, he looked beaten down and weak and _vulnerable_ , and that was a hard look to pull off with such a massive frame.

“Geeze…” Dean shook his head and leaned back against the desk, his nine-hour drive slowly catching up with him. “You find anything on that house?”

Bobby snorted and shook his head, sipping his beer before he gave an answer. “My connection got thousands of names all across the country based on the info you gave me. I talked to Feathers, but he couldn’t find anything, either. We just don’t have enough to go on.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Dean rubbed his face and let out a sigh. “Thought it was worth a try.”

It was worth a try if only to show Sam that Dean wasn’t disappointed or angry over the lack of detail in the vision. Honestly, the notion of anger had never even occurred to Dean. If a psychic could really be a hunter’s cheat sheet, everyone would have one; or they would try to duplicate the powers in themselves or others. Dean had always assumed it was a given that visions would be dicey and vague.

But the way Sam had looked at him.

Like Dean was strange for asking if he was okay after he had collapsed, vomiting and disoriented, on the side of the road. Like there was some kind of trap hidden in a backrub. Like Dean was going to shove the rag down his throat and choke him instead of clean his face. Like no one had ever bothered to help him through the debilitating agony of using powers _they_ wanted him to use.

Maybe no one ever had.

Dean hated it. He hated the way Sam flinched away from contact that was supposed to be comforting, hated the way he scrambled to apologize for transgressions that didn’t exist, hated the surprise in those soft, caramel eyes every time a kindness was shown.

“I know that face.” Bobby turned his chair slightly so both Dean and Sam were in his line of sight. “You said you wanted to talk, so talk.”

Dean briefly high-fived himself for thinking to call ahead and fill Bobby in on all that had happened between the auction and hour eight of the trip of home.

“I…” Dean shook his head. “I don’t know, Bobby. I just don’t like this.”

“Having a psychic around? Newsflash, I ain’t happy about it, either.”

Dean only shook his head, green eyes going from sage to forest as his expression darkened. “No, it’s not that.” He pressed his lips together, unsure of how to proceed. “I know demons are good liars—” he laughed bitterly, “—believe me, I know—” he sobered again, “—but there’s something about him, Bobby.”

Dean braced himself for the disbelief and scolding tone and concern disguised as threats of violence, but Bobby did little more than shift his attention to Sam.

“What do you mean?”

Dean rubbed the back of his head, grabbing at the first example that popped up. “Okay, like his injuries. If he wanted to manipul—” He stopped short, a long-forgotten thought suddenly triggered. “Crap!”

Dean bolted from the room and went down the hall to the bathroom, grabbing the first aid kit from under the sink. He hurried back, set the kit on the floor by the couch, and got to work unraveling Sam’s blanket.

“I had to strongarm him into wearing my shirts this morning,” Dean explained. “He was worried the wounds on his back would ooze on my clothes. From what I saw at the auction house, they won’t need stitches, but still…”

Dean hiked up Sam’s shirt and winced when the action pulled a couple scabs free. Sam didn’t react at all, dead to the world, and Dean got to work.

“He didn’t wanna stain your shirt?” Bobby looked on while Dean cleaned the cuts with hydrogen peroxide.

“Yeah, he was real concerned about it.” Dean grabbed the Neosporin from the box and applied it to four of the biggest cuts. “Doesn’t seem to have a problem being injured. He won’t tell me if anything’s wrong, and that’s the part I don’t get.”

Bobby nodded thoughtfully and took a drink of his beer. “If he wanted to get you all sympathetic and weepy, why play it down?”

“Exactly.” Dean taped down the first bandage and got to work placing the second. “Once we started talking, it was easy to see he was messed up, but he just kept saying he belonged to someone who, ‘kinda flipped a bit.’ His words. He wouldn’t tell me anything else, and I just don’t get it.” He started on the third, wincing a bit when the tape went over one of the minor cuts. “Why not tell me a real sob story, you know?”

Bobby hummed to himself, still observing, still nursing his drink. “You think maybe he’s just that smart? He’s planned ahead far enough that he knows what you’ll expect, so he’s trying something different?”

“I don’t think so, Bobby.” Dean shook his head, feeling more comfortable with an honest reply the longer Bobby went without calling him crazy. “His eyes, man. I can’t… if you see them, you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.” He taped down the last bit of gauze and adjusted Sam’s shirt. “Okay, change of subject, but… I told you they sterilized him, right?”

Bobby gave a nod, brow creased in mild confusion.

“I feel like I should check and make sure he’s okay. I asked him last night—as non-weirdly as I could—how he was, and he said he was just sore, but… well, it’s like I said. He doesn’t tell me when something’s wrong, and I looked it up, and it’s only supposed to hurt for, like, three days. But I don’t really know when they clipped him, so…?” He looked at Sam for a moment, and then he looked at Bobby. “What do I do?”

“Oh, for crying out loud, it’s a penis not a shark.” Bobby rolled his eyes and held out his beer, pointing to the first aid kid with his free hand. “Give me the gloves and pull his pants down.”

 _Oh, thank goodness._ Dean had not-so-subconsciously been hoping Bobby would take that particular job out of his hands, so he gladly took the beer and handed over a pair of latex gloves. _I mean, I still gotta yank the guy’s pants down, but there are worse things._

Dean set the beer on the desk and got work on Sam’s button and fly. He tugged the pants and boxers down to mid-thigh and took a step back, leaving the rest to Bobby. _If Dad were here, he’d laugh and tell me to get over it._ Which, to be fair, Dean was kind of acting like a grade schooler who hadn’t gotten over the idea of cooties. Except Sam wasn’t a girl, and Dean didn’t think Sam had cooties. Dean just didn’t want to _touch_ it.

“It looks alright to me. Red and irritated, but nothin’ to be concerned about. Give him some ibuprofen and keep an eye on it.” Bobby gave Dean a sideways look and rolled his eyes at the expression he saw. “Or tell _him_ to keep an eye on it.”

Dean pressed his lips together and gave a thumbs up. “I like that second one.” He struggled with Sam’s clothes for a minute but eventually got everything back where it was supposed to be. “I guess he’s as good as he can be for now.” He re-wrapped Sam in the blanket burrito he had previously been occupying, barely resisting the urge to reach out and fix the shaggy mop of hair sticking out of the top.

Bobby peeled off the gloves and handed them over, waiting until Dean returned his beer to continue talking. “So, we can agree the kid’s acting funny about bein’ hurt.”

Dean gathered the remaining medical garbage and closed the kit. “It’s not just that, though.” He tossed the trash in the garbage can by the desk and set the kit nearby in case they needed to use it again. “He woke up screaming every hour or so last night and… nothing. He’d lay there and pant for a while—couple of times, I think I heard him crying—but then he’d just fade off to sleep again. He kept quiet, didn’t ask for help, and honestly? It seemed like he was used to it.”

Bobby nodded his head and looked at Sam, reaching out to nudge the sleeping face. “He have any nightmares in the car?”

Dean shook his head. “Nope. Once he was out, he was _out._ ”

“So, he’s either terrible at sticking to his story, which seems kinda sloppy for a master manipulator, or he’s got nightmares out the wazoo and finally passed out from sleep deprivation and a migraine.” Bobby glanced at Dean, his eyes relaying a silent command to continue down the list of discrepancies that bothered him.

Dean wet his lips, a sort of determination forming in his gut the more he thought about Sam and the longer Bobby listened to him. “Every time he refused to talk, he just looked… I dunno, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It’s so…” He struggled with his words for a moment but ultimately decided to forgo a description. “I keep trying to figure out why he would hide injuries. I mean, it’s weird that he hides them at all, because you think he’d be doing the opposite, but… what does he gain by keeping quiet? He really doesn’t have a reason to hide how bad he is unless… it scares him or embarrasses him or…” He spread his hands slightly in a gesture of helplessness, “…or something that _isn’t_ evil manipulation from Hell.”

Bobby hummed to himself, and they fell into an easy silence that lasted for several moments before Bobby pushed the conversation along. “There’s still something else. I can tell.”

Dean squinted at Sam slightly, a heaviness settling in his heart that he couldn’t quite describe. “We left the motel this morning, and Sam spilled his coffee in the car. He…” Dean was amazed at how upsetting it was to recall the words. “He asked—no, he begged me not to hit him, and he just kept apologizing.”

_“Please, don’t hit me! It was an accident. I’ll clean it up, just—you don’t have to hit me. You don’t need to teach me a lesson. I already know how clumsy I am, and I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”_

“His _eyes,_ Bobby.” Dean shook his head, floored by how distraught he was over the broken face of someone he barely knew and, under different circumstances, would have hunted. “I know I said it before but… _man,_ those eyes. It was pitiful. I kept waiting for one of those ASPCA commercial songs to start coming out the speakers.”

Bobby snorted. “I don’t think he’s ever been in the arms of an angel.”

Dean was able to crack a grin at that, feeling somewhat lighter for the first time in hours. “Actually, Cas was the one to carry him out of the auction house, so…”

Bobby smirked and emptied his bottle. “Still, I know what you mean. I’ve seen that look a few times, and it’s no picnic.”

Dean heaved a sigh, and that time around, he actually started reaching for Sam’s hair before he stopped himself. “He looked at me like I caught him trying to summon Lucifer, but it was just a cup of coffee. It was just… a freakin’ cup of coffee.”

Bobby waited in silence for a few moments—something he often did to ensure Dean was finished speaking, which Dean appreciated more than Bobby would ever understand—but then he started to talk, and Dean was surprised by what he had to say.

“Dean, you gotta trust your gut.”

Dean looked at Bobby, waiting in confused silence.

“Now, I’m not saying you should give up hunting and open a group home for mistreated monsters, but a hunter’s gut is the best weapon he has. Your old man used to rent a psychic regularly. Missouri, think her name was. And you know how much your dad hated monsters, but he said Missouri was good. Said he wouldn’t hunt her, not even if someone paid him or a good friend asked.” Bobby shrugged his shoulders and let his eyes go from Dean’s face to Sam’s. “If you look at him, and it ain’t just sympathy but a… a _twist_ or a burn that ain’t right… you trust it. Especially now, when even the good guys are turning out to be bad.” He looked back at Dean. “You trust your gut, you hear me?”

Dean folded his arms over his chest and nodded, giving Sam another long look. “I hear you.” He stared for another moment, letting the relief of Bobby’s approval—no, his _encouragement—_ wash over him. “I, uh—I’m gonna make a couple calls. We can’t do anything about Sam’s vision, but there’s still an apocalypse to stop.”

Bobby snorted and raised his bottle. “I’ll drink to that.”

Dean flashed a quick smirk and headed for the kitchen.

“Dean.”

Dean slowed to a stop and turned to look at Bobby, his slightly quirked brow serving as a silent question.

“It ain’t wrong to take advantage of the chance to be a big brother.” Bobby leveled Dean with stern but unwaveringly kind eyes. “Just ‘cause our Sam ain’t here with us, that don’t mean you can’t still be the guy who saved money in a lunchbox for two decades.”

Dean swallowed hard and averted his eyes, scrambling to come up with a reply.

“If you’re right about Sam—this Sam—then you gotta know he’s never had anybody stand up for him. Nobody ever protected him or put him first, so if it feels right, you fill that slot. You aren’t betraying our Sam by throwing a life-line to somebody you know is drowning.”

Dean looked at the carpet, swallowing again, unsure of what to do with the tightness in his chest but knowing he didn’t like it. He cleared his throat, opened his mouth to reply, and then turned and walked the rest of the way to the phone. His hands were shaking slightly when he grabbed the phone from the receiver, and he sent up a quick prayer as he dialed.


	6. Chapter 6

When Castiel answered Dean’s prayer, he checked on the abomination first, appearing in the living room behind an unusually silent Bobby Singer. Castiel tilted his head slightly, confused and somewhat concerned by the lack of restraints.

“Why have—”

Bobby jumped and turned in his chair, cursing loudly. “Feathers!”

“I’ve told you before, my name is Castiel.” He nodded toward the couch, addressing the problem on the forefront of his mind. “Why have you not restrained him?”

“Well, for starters, he’s out cold, and for finishers, he hasn’t caused any trouble yet, and Dean doesn’t think he plans to.” Bobby reached out and nudged the abomination on the cheek, looking at Castiel expectantly as the head lolled back into place. “He’s real fierce, as you can see.”

Castiel let out a soft sigh and tilted his head. It certainly looked like the abomination was no threat in the state he was in, but… well, he was an abomination, a demonic abomination, and Castiel was responsible for keeping Bobby and Dean safe.

Castiel had dragged Dean out of Hell and used that relationship to manipulate the Righteous Man he was supposed to protect, and when he finally decided to do the right thing, it resulted in him being unable to cure Bobby’s paralysis. He couldn’t let more harm befall them as a result of his brothers’ infamous prizefight.

“I do not like it,” Castiel muttered, eyes narrowing slightly. “I can’t sense his thoughts, his emotions, his… _essence._ I can’t see inside him the way I can you or Dean. I can’t be certain he’s unconsciousness.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “I can, and trust me, he is.” He extended the empty bottle toward Castiel. “How about you leave the ragdoll with me and take that into the kitchen?” Castiel heard the brief, _Dean walked away before I could give it to him,_ mixed with undertones of concern. “Go see what Dean called you for, ‘cause I figure if you’re here, it’s not to discuss the weather over lemonade.”

Castiel frowned, completely lost and a little bit offended, but he sought to follow Bobby’s instructions. He cast another glance at the abomination, and then he walked into the adjacent kitchen, spying Dean at the table. He took the bottle to the sink and then turned to Dean, hoping there was a good explanation for the whole Leaving-The-Vessel-Of-The-Literal-Devil-Unchained-And-Guarded-By-One-Measly-Human… _thing_.

“Dean—”

Dean held up a finger, and Castiel realized he was talking on the phone.

 _Did you… call me, and then… call someone else?_ Castiel didn’t even try not to be indignant about that. _I have better things to do than stand here waiting for you to talk to me, Dean._ Except that wasn’t really true, which was probably why he shuffled in place instead of flying off.

“Yup. Okay. Thanks, Gordon, we can use all the help we can get. Call me if you find anything, alright? Yuh-huh. Yup, see you tomorrow, bye.” Dean hung up and walked over to the fridge. “Hey, we gotta talk about Sam.” He pulled out a beer and used the edge of the counter to take the top off.

Castiel tilted his head slightly. “Sam?” If he recalled correctly, that was Dean’s deceased brother. What did he have to do with anything?

Dean drank with one hand and gestured to the library with the other. “Demonicus Deathacus. Vessel McPsychicpants.”

Castiel stared at him, more lost than ever.

“The Boy with the Demon Blood.”

“Oh, of course.” Castiel was still confused about the names, but it didn’t seem all that important, so he pressed on. “If you have a name, I assume you began the interrogation? How successful were you?”

Dean shook his head and winced slightly, holding up a finger as his mouth opened with the intent to speak. Castiel had come to call that particular set of features Dean’s Haha-Funny-Story-Don’t-Smite-Me-For-This-But… Look.

Castiel did not like that look.

“I didn’t interrogate Sam, and I’m not going to. Nobody is.”

Castiel was torn between surprise and exasperation. “Dean—”

“He’s not bad, Cas. He’s not evil _._ ” Dean gestured to the room as he spoke, passionate and clearly believing every word that came out of his mouth, however misguided those words might have been. “I think I can get him to just tell me, but it’s gonna take a little while.”

“We don’t _have_ a little while, Dean.” Castiel resisted the urge to clench his fists, but he couldn’t stop the glare. “We are trying to stop the Apocalypse. We don’t have time for mercy, especially not for those we don’t know we can trust.”

Dean shook his head. “Not this time, Cas. I don’t think it’ll take long—maybe a week or two? I’ll have a better idea once I talk to him again.”

Castiel felt frustration curling in the pit of his stomach, slowly moving upward, heating his chest. “We need to know what he knows, Dean, and we need to know it _now._ We aren’t looking for leads, this is the _result_ of our leads. He is Lucifer’s Vessel. He’s—”

“He’s scared, Cas.” Dean had a pain Castiel couldn’t quite describe coloring his eyes. “He’s terrified of me, and I told him you’re an angel, so I guarantee, he won’t be able to look at you the next time you see him.”

“What does he have to fear from either of us?” Castiel moved closer when Dean turned to look out the window, something he often did right before shutting down. “He’s lying to you, Dean. You need to be objective.”

Dean turned suddenly, meeting his eyes with solid conviction. “No, I need to trust my gut, and I need my best friend to back my play.”

Those words were enough to give Castiel pause. It wasn’t often that Dean referred to Castiel as his best friend—or admitted to fondness in general—but when he did…

“Dean…” Castiel let out a soft sigh. “What does your gut tell you?”

“My gut tells me if he wants my sympathy, he’s going about it all wrong; it tells me there are a million ways he could be getting in my head, and he’s making all the stupidest moves. Just…” Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “Just talk to him, okay? Have one conversation with him, and you’ll see exactly what I mean. Somebody screwed him up in the head, and I’m not adding to that pain. I don’t…” Dean swallowed, eyes flickering to the side.

_Don’t think about Hell, Dean. Don’t think about Hell. Don’t._

Dean didn’t listen. He never did. “I don’t… _do_ that anymore. I… I don’t…” He shook his head and took a swig of beer, turning back to the window with a sigh. “He did share a little bit. Do you recognize the names, uh… Irzameg and… Sarnathul?”

Castiel pondered the names for a moment and then shook his head. “No.” But that didn’t mean they didn’t exist, and they _did_ sound demonic.

“Supposedly, they’re Azazel’s kids. I knew he had at least two, so Sam’s story lines up with what little I know.” Dean shrugged his shoulders. “I’m thinking Irzameg might be Meg.”

Castiel blinked a few times. “Oh. Meg.” He glanced to the left, swallowed hard, and then looked back at Dean. “Yes. I threw her in a fire.” His heart was palpitating. Odd. “Meg and… another one, apparently?”

Dean smirked against his bottle.

Castiel frowned. “What?”

Dean pursed his lips and shook his head. “Nothing.” He leaned back against the sink. “Sam said they might know something about the plans in Hell, which also fits with what we know, because they were part of Hell’s last big plan, and we know at least Meg is involved with Lucifer.”

Castiel perked up at that. That sounded like tangible steps he could take toward getting answers and achieving their goal. So what if other angels caught wind of what he was doing? He would be _doing_ something. A soldier without orders was not a happy one, and Castiel liked his orders more than most.

“I can track them down.” Though, in the case of Meg, he wondered if he couldn’t just summon her. No, no, that was a terrible plan. He had thrown her in a fire, she probably wouldn’t be inclined to help. “By this time tomorrow, I will have information on the Boy’s involvement with Hell.”

“Sweet.” Dean pointed his thumb skyward. “Uh, hey, can you do me a favor?”

Castiel gave Dean a disparaging look. “No, I will not bring you pie.”

Dean held up a finger. “Okay, first of all, best friends bring best friends pie, always. Second of all…” he dropped his hand and looked to the living room, sobering somewhat. “Call him Sam, okay? Or Samuel. Or anything, really, just give him a name. He’s a screwed-up, blood-drinking, non-human person, but he’s still a person, Cas. Even the Devil gets to be called Lucifer.”

Castiel frowned slightly, looking between Dean and the form on the couch. Bobby was still hovering nearby, reading something at his desk while the abomination slept. Castiel looked at Dean again and then approached the sofa, looking down at the face pinched tightly with pain.

Castiel might not have been able to sense the demon blood in the Boy’s veins, but he knew it was there, and that knowledge was nauseating to him. He didn’t expect Dean to understand—didn’t expect Dean to know how repulsive darkness was when you were made of light and energy and _purity_ —but he did expect Dean to try. Especially for his supposed best friend.

 _Although… if an angel can fall… can a demon rise?_ Castiel reached out and nudged the Boy’s cheek exactly as Bobby had, a small whimper rising from the form on the bed. _If I can be born for obedience and rebel… if that is my choice… perhaps there is a choice for Sam as well._

Castiel vanished without a word. Before he thought anymore about Sam’s nature, he wanted to get some information.

Besides, torture was a great way to work out his frustration.

* * *

It was hours later that Castiel appeared in the library again, and he found it both empty and dark. The Boy was— _Sam_ was still unrestrained and, unlike earlier, completely unsupervised.

Castiel thought he deserved a medal for his exemplary patience with humanity.

“Sam.” Castiel approached the couch and nudged him on the arm. “Sam, wake up. I need some of your blood.”

Though slightly outdated, there was a spell that could compel someone to reveal information, but one needed the object—or, in the case of a living creature, the blood—of the topic of interrogation.

Castiel sighed and pulled the empty vial he had procured from his pocket, taking Sam’s hand in his and focusing his Grace. He pricked the fingertip and waited patiently—he really _did_ deserve a medal—for the blood to reach the necessary amount.

_I still can’t sense a thing about you, Boy. Your thoughts, your emotions, your blood… it’s all hidden from me. I look at your soul, and I see endless lines of codes and sigils and curses…_

Briefly, he wondered if Sam even knew just how warded he was. Castiel hadn’t told Dean, but he had essentially figured out Sam was the Boy because he was so heavily protected, not because he could actually sense the blood.

“Mmm…” Sam turned his head in his sleep, face twisting up as if he were in pain. He exhaled sharply, turned his head the other way and then back again, letting out another moan.

Castiel frowned, glancing at the wounded finger. _Surely, he can’t feel that._ Even if he could, there was no way the Boy’s pain threshold was that low.

Sam turned his head again, pushing his tongue against his teeth in some half-conscious attempt to spit. “No…” His face screwed up, and he whined, spitting again.

 _Oh. It’s not the pain, it’s the smell._ Castiel looked at the vial and decided to wait a few more seconds. _Besides, a little panic works wonders for loosening a tongue._

Not that Castiel would go against Dean’s orders, but if Sam woke up, afraid and disoriented, and let something slip… that wasn’t really interrogation, was it?

Sam whined again, pulling weakly on his hand. “Don’t… want…” He panted softly, his leg starting to kick underneath the blanket. “Nnn…”

Castiel removed the vial and capped it, running his thumb over the mark to heal it. He pocketed the blood and put Sam’s hand down, unsurprised to find it jerking in the opposite direction the second it was released.

“M’sorry…” Sam started to roll over, one arm haphazardly moving to cover his head, but he got stuck halfway through, tangled in blankets and limited by the surface area of the couch. “Sss… sorry, sorry… m’sorry…”

Castiel put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, shaking him gently. “Sam.”

Sam’s voice jumped an octave, his plea coming out in a high-pitched whine. “Sorry…”

Castiel shook him again, a little harder. “Sam, I cannot wake you, and I cannot ease your dreams. I can’t even see what it is you’re dreaming about. You have to wake up conventionally.” He gave another shake when he saw it wasn’t working. “Sam. Sam!”

Sam jolted, eyes snapping open with a quiet yelp.

Thankfully, between Castiel’s stage whispering and Sam’s quiet nature, neither of the resident humans woke up. Unfortunately, that quiet continued, and it was fueled by sheer terror.

Sam was staring at him, eyes blown wide with fear, a thin sheen of sweat covering his body. He was breathing hard, mouth slightly open as he panted, and his gaze kept flickering to the hand still on his shoulder. His entire body was taut; every muscle had turned to stone.

“Sam, are you awake now?”

Sam wet his lips and offered the faintest of nods, looking no higher than Castiel’s tie before putting his gaze back on the angel’s hand.

“It was a bad dream. I couldn’t wake you, you understand. You’re heavily warded.”

Sam flinched at the words, but he went still immediately afterward, lips stammering a breathy reply. “S—sorry.”

Castiel frowned slightly and took his hand from Sam’s shoulder, disconcerted by the slouch of relief that came with the broken contact. Sam didn’t acknowledge the separation beyond that, though; there was no looking at Castiel’s face once he didn’t have to watch the hand anymore, he simply stared at Castiel’s shoes.

_“He’s terrified of me, and I told him you’re an angel, so I guarantee, he won’t be able to look at you the next time you see him.”_

Castiel had assumed—incorrectly, it would seem—that Dean had fallen into his usual habit of metaphor, hyperbole, exaggeration, and generally never saying what he actually meant.

“Sam.” Castiel buffered for a moment, unsure of what he wanted to ask. “What were you dreaming about?” He figured it was the question most likely to lead to information without crossing the ‘interrogation’ line.

“Blood.” Sam swallowed hard. “I didn’t drink any. It was just a dream.”

Castiel furrowed his brow and tilted his head to the side. “How did demon blood get into your dreams?”

Sam flinched at the question. “Memories.” He was still staring at Castiel’s shoes, and his hands were starting to shake. “From before, when I… did. Drink it, I mean. From before, when I did drink it.”

Castiel didn’t say anything for a moment, but silence was apparently not the way to coax information from Sam, and if the dream was a manifestation of memory, Castiel definitely wanted more information. “What did you remember?”

Sam shuddered, leaning away from Castiel before going completely still again. “Someone making me drink it.” Slowly, the trembling returned.

“Who made you drink the blood?”

Sam screwed his eyes shut, trying so hard not to move that he shook like a leaf. “S—someone,” he managed.

Castiel observed him for a moment, silent. He noted the way Sam didn’t try to curl up or cover his head; Sam clearly knew how easily Castiel could dispatch him. It was something to fear, to be sure, but paralyzingly so?

_“…I guarantee, he won’t be able to look at you the next time you see him.”_

“Sam, look at me.” Castiel did his best to keep the cold edge from his tone, but he had been informed that his natural speaking voice sounded like he wanted someone dead, so he wasn’t sure it worked.

Sam shuddered violently and started to do what was asked of him, making it all the way to the knot of Castiel’s tie before stopping. “Yes?” he whispered.

“No, look at me.” Castiel put a finger under Sam’s chin and applied the faintest amount of pressure. “Meet my eyes.”

Sam let Castiel guide his head up, took a deep breath, and he looked in Castiel’s eyes. His own eyes were already watery, but it seemed looking an angel full in the face was the drop that broke the dam, and a few silent tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Y-yes?”

It took Castiel a moment to process that he had, quite literally, frightened the Eye of Hell’s Hurricane to tears. It was confusing, but he couldn’t deny it felt good to encounter someone who actually respected his power. There was a reason the phrase ‘fear not’ was in the Bible 365 times; angels were fearsome, even if humanity decided to forget it over the past several centuries, and there was a time when seeing one required the same gentle assurance necessary when God spoke to them directly.

More importantly than the reason behind the phrase, however, was the fact that it existed. Because ‘fear not’ was in the Bible 365 times, and it wasn’t to prove the might of Heaven.

“Sam, you are safe.” For the time being, anyway. “It’s alright.”

Sam didn’t seem to believe him, but he forced himself to steady his breathing and did his best to sooth the tremors racking his body.

Castiel looked at him for a long moment, and then he dropped his hand.

Sam dutifully kept his head in place, though it was clear he didn’t want to.

“You should get some sleep. I’m sure Dean will want you coherent in the morning.” Castiel slipped his hand into his pocket and fingered the vial of Sam’s blood. “Shall I…” He backpedaled on his words, knowing he didn’t have the time—and should not have had the inclination—to guard Sam while he slept. “Do you need anything?”

Sam pressed his lips together and shook his head.

“Then lie down.” Castiel gestured to the couch, and Sam immediately obeyed. Castiel adjusted the blanket that had gotten twisted during the fitful sleep, feeling Sam shudder under his hands. “I’ll stand watch until you fall asleep, but I can’t stay.”

“You don’t—you don’t have to. I won’t do anything bad.” Sam couldn’t look at Castiel again, his eyes riveted to the cushion directly beside his head.

Castiel felt his lips twitch into the faintest of frowns. “That is not what I mean.”

Sam blinked up at him, some of the fear receding under a wave of confusion. “You’re… gonna watch over… me?”

“Until you fall asleep, yes, but I cannot stay.” Castiel tilted his head slightly, and he didn’t like the burn he was starting to get in his chest. It was very human, with high potential to cause problems.

Sam blinked again, fingers curling through the soft fabric of his blanket. “But… me?”

Castiel let out a soft sigh, fairly certain he had been clear on that point multiple times. “Is this a sarcasm?”

Sam shook his head rapidly. “No. No, never. Not—not to you, never.”

Castiel’s irritation faded quickly, giving way to more of that burning he so disliked. “Then I do not understand your question.”

“I just…” Sam seemed stuck on his words, like his tongue was beginning to malfunction in his mouth. “I just thought… I mean, I… never mind, sorry, I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t have—that was pretty ungrateful, wasn’t it? Sorry. I’m—I’m really sorry. I—”

“You talk too much,” Castiel interrupted. “You can’t sleep if you’re talking.”

Sam pressed his lips together and nodded a few times, sinking into the cushions and blankets. He curled up on his side, making himself comfortable, and then he closed his eyes.

“Thank you, Castiel,” Sam whispered, hesitant, as if he were unsure whether the thanks would be accepted, like he was waiting for his voice to trigger some kind of violent response from Castiel.

“Sleep well, Sam.”

Castiel stood by Sam’s head until he was asleep. Or at least, Castiel thought he was asleep, based on the way his breathing had evened out and his muscles relaxed. Because Castiel still couldn’t _sense_ anything about Sam. If it weren’t for the fact that he was right next to the Boy, he wouldn’t be able to sense his existence at all, let alone how abnormal it was.

 _Don’t do anything rash._ Castiel disappeared in a flutter and a trans-dimensional shift. _Finish interrogating Sarnathul, and then make a judgement on Sam._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Season 5 Castiel is my favorite Castiel. That is all.


	7. Chapter 7

Sam woke up comfortable, which was very odd. He woke up without any restraints and wrapped in a blanket, fresh bandages hugging his back and sides. He woke up to the mouthwatering aroma of eggs and bacon and the safe sensation associated with light-hearted voices somewhere nearby. He woke up like… like a normal person, he guessed, which was equal parts fascinating and frightening.

“Bobby, you want your eggs scrambled or dippy?”

“D’you even know me, boy?”

Sam wet his lips and opened his eyes, blinking hard at the bright light shining through a bay window to his right. He was on a couch—one he didn’t remember lying down on—in some kind of library that seemed to double as a living room. He had clearly heard Dean in the kitchen, meaning Dean hadn’t left him, meaning air suddenly went into Sam’s lungs a lot easier.

 _Dean didn’t mention having a house._ But then again, Dean had never really said where they were going. _I should have asked._ But he didn’t want to think about the trip coming to an end, and then he had the vision and… he must have fallen asleep.

 _Bobby… he talked on the phone with someone named Bobby._ If Sam recalled correctly, Bobby was the person Dean had called about what little detail Sam’s vision gave them.

Sam slowly sat up, feeling the bandages tugging on his skin, and he idly reached back to rub the places where the tape met his skin. He swung his legs out over the edge, still rubbing, and stood up. He leaned to the right a bit and saw Dean standing at a stove in the next room—some sort of kitchen and dining room combo.

Licking his lips again, Sam grabbed the blanket he had been given and folded it neatly before draping it over the back of the couch. He adjusted the pillows and smoothed out the cushions, feeling he should do _something_ to make up for his general uselessness.

“Did any of your contacts call you back?”

“Mhm. Fox says there’s demons all over the west coast, but no rise in natural disasters yet. Jody called Donna two days ago, and if she don’t hear back by tonight, she’s gonna go check on her. Reggie says tornado alley is a nightmare, even for tornado alley.”

“Geeze…”

Sam didn’t recognize most of the names, but he remembered a Reggie. Assuming it was the same guy, he was one of the hunters who had first owned Sam. He was relatively safe and never outright cruel to Sam; him and his two friends even gave Sam his first beer… and his next… and the one after that, and the one after that… and then they were nice enough to help him through the hangover the next day.

It was actually a sort of fond memory, one of the only ones Sam had.

 _I guess that means Bobby is probably okay, too. Besides, if Dean trusts him…_ Sam started to creep towards the archway that lead into the kitchen, footsteps hesitant and silent. _Oh, good. He’s in a wheelchair._ He immediately felt bad. _I mean, not good, bad, but I mean—I mean, he probably can’t hurt me without a projectile as long as I’m more than an arm’s length away._ Right. _I am a terrible person._

“You gonna stand there all day?”

Sam startled at the gruff tone and rough-around-the-edges demeanor. Of course, Dean had seemed that way at first, too, and Sam was pretty sure they were related. Either that, or they were both part of the Plaid Flannel for Life Club.

“Hey, Sam!” Dean smiled over his shoulder for a second, almost cheerful. “How you feeling?”

Sam rubbed the back of his head, cautiously touched. “Uh, much better, thank you.” His gaze shifted between Bobby and Dean uncertainly. “My migraine’s gone, and my back doesn’t hurt as much.” He bit his lip. “Is, uh… is your shirt okay?”

Dean turned to look at him again, brow furrowed in confusion. “Uh… shirt…” he looked back at what he was doing, “…shirt…” he flipped the over-easy eggs onto a plate. “Oh! Shirt. Did it get stained?”

“Uh—” Sam blinked, gesturing behind himself. “I thought… isn’t that why you…?”

Bobby reached out to take the recently prepared plate Dean was handing him. “Kid, we patched you up ‘cause you needed patchin’ up. Simple as that.”

Sam blinked again, startled and confused, and he was surprised to find he had subconsciously been hoping for a reason like that. Still, even his most hopeful scenario had them saying something like, ‘You started moaning in your sleep, and you looked so miserable we took pity on you.’ He didn’t expect…

“Um, th-thank you for… for your kindness, I—um, thanks.” Sam shook himself and stepped closer to Bobby, clearing his throat and extending his hand. “Sorry. I, uh, I’m Sam. It’s nice to meet you. Oh, uh, if you don’t want to shake my hand, that’s okay.” He withdrew it slightly, just in case. “Some people don’t. Not that you need my permission. Obviously. I just, uh—”

“How about you put us all outta our misery and shake my hand? Name’s Bobby Singer.” Bobby grabbed Sam’s hand before he could pull it back any more, and while his manner was coarse, there was a genuine kindness in his eyes. Yet another similarity between him and Dean. “Hope you enjoyed my couch. You hungry, kid?”

Sam nodded deeply. “Yes, sir, Mr. Singer.”

“It’s Sam, right? Replace the last three quarters of that sentence with ‘Bobby,’ and you’re golden, Sam.” With that, Bobby shoved a forkful of food in his mouth.

Sam nodded. “Yes, sir. Um, Bobby.” He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks slowly warming. “Yes, Bobby. Sorry.”

Bobby shook his head but didn’t say anything, rolling his eyes as he chewed.

Sam flushed slightly, but he didn’t linger on the notion of embarrassment long. His hunger was much more pressing, and he looked at the stove, trying to decide whether or not he should make himself a plate. _Dean has gotten me things to eat for every meal since he bought me, and Bobby did ask if I was hungry… it makes sense I would be allowed to have some of whatever Dean is making._

Sam almost moved forward, almost reached out to get a plate.

_“I—I’m sorry, sir! I just—you gave me one this morning, and I thought—”_

_“Don’t think, Sam! Don’t assume. You deserve nothing, understand? I give you gifts, and you appreciate them, and then you crawl back to your corner and wait for me to offer again.”_

_“Y-yes, sir! It won’t happen again, sir!”_

Sam shook his head and blinked a few times, hoping he hadn’t spaced out too obviously. Neither man was looking at him oddly or pressing for conversation, so Sam lingered in the archway of safety, watching the action in the kitchen.

 _I’ve never been owned by a team member before._ Well, there had been a couple, but that was different. That was romance, and he wasn’t offered any part of that—not that he wanted any—but what was laid out in front of him was something else. He didn’t know what, but it was different. It was a warm, special… _something_. Cooking breakfast, reading the morning paper, laughing and joking, first names, _nicknames,_ and that lack of darkness and hatred Sam had seen so, so much of in his life.

“Sammy, how do you like your eggs?”

Sam’s heart stopped beating in his chest. “What… did you…?”

Dean looked over his shoulder. “Huh?”

“You called… you called me…” Sam shook his head slowly, wondering if he had imagined it, _afraid_ he had imagined it. “Did you call me…?”

Dean frowned slightly. “You don’t want me to call you that?”

Sam shook his head again, faster and more insistent. “No, no, it’s fine. It’s great, I just…” He just spent the majority of his life dreaming about that nickname, and it made his stomach flutter to hear it from the lips of someone who had never hit him. “Um, scrambled. I’d like my eggs scrambled, please. Thank you.”

Dean gave him a thumbs up and got back to work, humming a tune under his breath, completely unaware of the gravity of what he had just done.

“Can I, uh, can I use the bathroom?” Sam asked, reeling, desperately needing an excuse to get out of the room.

“No.” Dean didn’t look up from what he was doing, jerking his thumb toward what looked like a front door. “You gotta go outside behind the shed.”

Sam gave a quick nod and started for the door, taking no more than three steps before being stopped by Dean’s voice.

“Sam.” He sounded upset but not angry. “It was a joke, man. You can always use the bathroom.” He sighed sadly. “Down the hall to the left. Okay?”

Sam hesitantly turned and took a few steps. “Okay…” He paused, looked at Dean, and then he went down the hall. He hurried to the bathroom and shut the door behind him, careful not to slam it, and then he bent over the sink. He turned on the water and splashed his face a few times, bracing his arms on either end of the counter and staring at himself in the mirror.

_He called me Sammy. I’m a Sammy. I’m somebody’s Sammy._

Sam couldn’t count the number of times he had laid awake in bed, staring at the ceiling and building a pretend family. He gave himself a mom and a dad, sometimes a younger sister, and always an older brother. Someone who got in between him and Azazel. Him and Gordon. Him and everyone who made him feel small and weak and afraid. He would picture that pretend family of his, and they always, _always_ called him Sammy. Mother, father, brother, sister… Sammy.

But no _real_ person had ever used that name.

Sam lowered his head, breathing hard, trying to suppress the burn behind his eyes, but the movement only pulled at the tape on his back. _He patched me up. Or Bobby did. Or they both did._ It didn’t matter. Not even a little bit. _I don’t understand. What did I do to deserve this?_

Still out of breath, Sam turned around and pulled his flannel off, looking over his shoulder at the mirror and finding the shirt pristine. Sam’s cuts hadn’t damaged Dean’s shirt, and that meant Dean had no reason to believe anything was going to stain that or any other shirt Sam wore.

_He called me Sammy._

Sam choked back a sob and quickly put his flannel back on, turning around and splashing his face some more. He took several deep breaths, slow and steady, and his eyes began to dry.

_Okay. Okay. This—this doesn’t mean anything. You’ve been here less than three days, and you haven’t made any big mistakes, and they haven’t seen what you can do. They don’t know about Azazel, they haven’t seen you at full power, just—just keep it together. This is temporary. This isn’t real. It’s not, it’s not, it can’t be._

Sam took another deep breath and ran his hands through his hair, effectively styling it for the day, and then he flushed the toilet so it would sound as if it had been used. He waited a few moments to imply handwashing, and then he opened the bathroom door. He walked into the hall, bare feet ever-silent, and rounded the corner just in time for Dean to holler at him.

“Sam! Your eggs are—oh.” Dean saw him in the doorway and held out the plate. “Here. Bacon’s on the counter.”

Sam hurried over and took the plate from Dean’s hand. “Thank you very much.” He grabbed a few pieces of bacon from the plate—how much could he take before it was considered rude?—and went to the corner, making himself comfortable on the floor.

He sat cross-legged and picked up a piece of bacon with his fingers, biting into the end of it with an almost inaudible moan. _Oh, how I have missed you, you glorious delicacy._

“Sam?”

Sam looked up to find Bobby and Dean staring at him oddly. His chest tightened, and he swallowed hard, lowering the bacon back to the plate. “Did I do something wrong?”

Dean shook his head, but he still seemed perturbed. “No, but… you don’t have to sit on the floor. You can sit on the couch or grab a chair from another room and drag it out.”

“Oh.” Sam slowly stood up, careful not to spill his food. “I… I didn’t want to assume.”

Bobby spoke up then. “You can always sit at my table, kid.”

“Thank you.” Sam smiled. “You’re both very kind.” He looked down at his food and then back up at his hosts. “Is it alright if I sit on the couch now?”

Because Sam may have been given permission to use the couch, but he had never been freed from the social obligation of eating in a dining room with the residents of the house. But Dean gave him a small smile, and Bobby gave him a nod, so it looked like it was alright.

“Thank you.” Sam smiled gratefully and took his food into the living room, sitting down on what had been his bed just a few hours earlier. He wet his lips and started to fork eggs into his mouth, a light smile pulling at his lips.

“Sam?”

Sam tensed, trying to reply around the food in his mouth. “Eh?”

“If you want seconds, just ask,” Dean replied.

Sam chewed a few times and swallowed. “I will, thank you.” He tried not to grin too much at the thought of being able to request _more_ food when the food on his plate was gone.

 _Maybe I can talk to Dean about the camp. He already entertained the idea of me being an unwilling participant, so he should believe me on that, but… will he believe me when I say my training isn’t so ingrained that I can’t control myself?_ Sam wet his lips and took another bite. _As far as he knows, I was off doing my typical demon things before finding out I had this special fate. It’s not like I was famous before the Apocalypse. But if he knows I was raised by the demon who destroyed his family… trained for the specific purpose of being Lucifer’s Vessel… what then? Even if he still sees me as a victim, he might think I’m under demonic control, and I’ll still end up locked away or dead._ Sam licked the grease from his fingers and shoved another piece of bacon into his mouth. _He I can drink demon blood to get abilities, but… if I tell him all I can do, he’s going to know I honed my skills, and that’s something I wasn’t forced to do. Not at first, anyway._ Ultimately, it all came down to the original question; the one Sam had been asking himself since he crawled into the back of Dean’s car.

_Where’s his line? Where is his freaking line?_

Not knowing frustrated Sam to tears, and he was on the verge of calling out to Dean—of screwing his eyes shut and bracing himself for the worst and flat-out asking—when there was a knock at the door.

 _Saved by the bell._ Except for the part where he was still an anxious mess.

“Looks like we got company.” Dean slid his chair back, sounding pleased.

“That’s one word for it.” Bobby did not sound pleased. Not at all.

Sam watched Dean go for the front door and tried not to let Bobby’s response put him on edge. Dean seemed happy with the person he was about to let in, so Sam just had to focus on that, and he would be able to relax.

“I know he’s not your favorite, Bobby, but he’s saved my life more than once, and we need all the help we can get.”

Sam put the last strip of bacon in his mouth, brow creasing slightly. _Castiel wouldn’t come through the door…_ and Sam really hoped it wasn’t him, because he was in no condition to see an angel face to face. _Bobby is here, and he’s the only other person Dean has talked to around me. Maybe—_

“Gordon Walker, you sonuva gun, it’s been too long.”

Sam’s blood froze in his veins.

“Wish I could say the feeling was mutual, Dean.”

His heart pounded wildly in his chest.

“Hey, now!”

His stomach churned.

“C’mon, put’er there!”

 _Run._ Sam set his plate aside with shaking hands, eyes burning with tears. _Run, Sam._ He hated that Gordon could bring him to the verge of tears just by speaking, but he hated the idea of resisting instinct in the name of pride even more. _Find a back door. Find a closet. Basement. Attic. Something. Just run, already!_

But Sam couldn’t run. He couldn’t even breathe. He was frozen on the couch.

“Sam, this is my old hunting buddy, Gordon.” Dean was smiling when he came around the corner. “Gordon, this is Sam. He’s the one I told you about—Lucifer’s Vessel? Bobby finally tracked him down.”

 _Oh, God._ Sam struggled to swallow the bacon in his mouth, eyes locked with Gordon’s. _He knows about Lucifer. Dean told him._ He struggled not to bolt or fall apart under Gordon’s stare, palms sweating, muscles tight.

“Oh. I know Sam.” Gordon gestured across the room. “He used to belong to me.”

Dean looked at Gordon, surprised. “Really? Before or after he got all messed up?”

 _Dean doesn’t know._ Sam inhaled slowly. _No, how could he not know?_ He exhaled. _Did Gordon ever work with Dean while owning me?_ Sam shook. _Did they investigate one of my visions?_ He swallowed. _Did Dean tell Gordon to get more from me?_

He still couldn’t breathe _,_ he couldn’t _breathe,_ and he was so scared.

“Sam… are you okay?”

Sam startled violently when Dean’s hand appeared in front of him. He launched himself off the couch and backed up until he hit the desk, but the anticipated blow never came. Dean had been only trying to get Sam’s attention. Sam opened his mouth but nothing came out.

“Come on, Sam, look at me.”

_“No, look at me. Meet my eyes.”_

Oh. _Oh._ Oh, no. Castiel had been there, sometime in the night. Castiel woke Sam up from a nightmare. Castiel—Castiel knew how terrified Sam was, knew the kind of power he had over Sam. How could he forget, how could he? Wait, where was Castiel? Why was Gordon there? Had Gordon met Castiel? What did Castiel tell him? What did Dean tell him? How was Sam supposed to survive in a building with an angel who wanted him dead, the owner who shattered what little sanity he once had, and the owner who made him feel safe again?

 _I… I… help me, please, somebody help me…_ Sam couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t form words, couldn’t do anything but stare into those confused and suddenly suspicious green eyes. _I can’t do this, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, please!_

“Careful, Dean, don’t get too close. You gotta watch yourself with this one.” Gordon leaned against the archway and folded his arms over his chest, gesturing to Sam. “Took me months to see through those big, puppy-dog eyes, but you know what they say: it’s always the quiet ones.”

Dean frowned and looked away from Sam. “What are you talking about?”

“Dean, Sam is powerful and _evil_. It makes sense now, knowing what he really is, but I had no idea at the time. I thought he was just a run-of-the-mill psychic, and then…” Gordon shook his head and let out a long stream of air. “I had to sell him. I couldn’t control his power anymore.”

Sam shook his head faintly, fingers digging into the edge of the desk. _No, that’s not how it happened. That’s a lie._ His eyes flickered back to Dean, but Dean was still focused on Gordon. _Dean, please, please tell me you can see he’s lying. Dean, please, don’t—don’t do this to me, please._

 _Oh, little Samifer. _ Azazel tisked from the darkest corner of Sam’s mind, laughing mirthfully as Sam’s panic began to escalate. _Did you actually trust them? I taught you better than that, Sam. Dean was never your friend. He never cared. He wanted you happy so you wouldn’t resist when he strapped you down to reeducate you._

 _No._ Sam’s breath hitched. _Not Dean._

 _Yes. Yes, Dean._ Azazel laughed. _You do know I’m just a manifestation of your thoughts, right? Everything I say is true, you just can’t say it to yourself, so you stick my voice on the words and make me do it for you. We’ve been over this before._

Sam shook where he stood, panicking, eyes wide and frantic but utterly unseeing—it was just a field of white fog and colored lights, memories overlapping the present, Azazel’s mocking laughter blurring together with Gordon’s accusations until the weight of it all crushed the air from Sam’s lungs.

“I know he looks innocent, but you gotta trust me on this, man. He waits for you to get comfortable and then…” Gordon broke off for a moment, shaking his head. “Don’t forget what he is, Dean. He’s a monster, not a man, and definitely not a kid.”

 _No. No, you broke me._ Sam wanted to say it out loud, but he couldn’t. _I was good, I was obedient, I did my job like a good soldier, I—I was the best, and you broke me._ He couldn’t argue, that was against the rules, it was against the _rules,_ and Sam was a good boy. _I didn’t do this, I didn’t—I didn’t want this!_

 _It was the Sammy, wasn’t it? _ Azazel dug his claws into Sam’s chest, and it turned Sam’s stomach to hear that sacred nickname in the voice that narrated his worst nightmares. _ Or was it the banter and smiles? Maybe the way he rubbed your back while you were sick? Or how he let you sleep on a bed and made you breakfast? Was it because he patched you up and took care of your migraine? You’ve always been so desperate for a family, Samifer. You’re so… domestic._

“I don’t know, Gordon. What did he do that was so bad? Because…”

_ Desperate little Sammy Boy, sick with the flu, curled up at the base of the toilet, and me dragging your pitiful meatsack out to the shooting range, kicking you when you stopped to heave or slipped into a coughing fit. Weak, weak, weak… _

“I know I just met him, I don’t need you to tell me that, Walker. You’re avoid—Cas? You weren’t supposed to be back until tonight.”

**Gunshots. Smoke. Hands in his hair. Dragging, pulling, bleeding.**

“It didn’t take me long to find out about the Boy. He’s well known in Hell, apparently. Azazel’s Prodigy. Or Pet. It depends who you ask. He’s been…”

_ You just wanted someone to hold your hair back and tell you everything was going to be okay. You wanted someone to kiss your stitches and bruises, wanted someone to hold you and sing a lullaby until the nightmares went away, wanted to know what a hug felt like. You still want to know what a hug feels like. You weak, worthless, pitiful imitation of a man. _

“Just hold on a second, both of you.”

_ It’s adorable, in a pathetic and embarrassing kind of way, how much you want to convince yourself that he cares. _ **Smile.** _ Do you really think he’ll choose you over his hunters? Over an angel? _ **Wings.** _ You’re sick and twisted—just like Castiel said, you’re an abomination. You can’t even look at something holy without falling apart. _

“Dean, we need to detain him. He is immensely powerful and well-trained, and we don’t yet know what sets him off.”

**Chains. Bars. Cold, cold floor.**

“I would think being detained might be on that list, Cas!”

**Whips. Gags. Blood and ropes and knives.**

_ You’re so dramatic. Sam, the Boy with the Drama Queen Disposition. You’ve always been a whiny little bitch, haven’t you? _

“Your buddy is right, especially if that demon boot camp crap is true.”

_ Oh, did you think Dean was joking? Sarcasm is the only time people tell the truth, Sam. As soon as you were asleep, he had to pull over he was laughing so hard. You’re so stupid. Gullible. _

“Sam, talk to me. Are they telling the—Sam? Sam, snap out of it.”

_ Never really grew up, did you, Sammy? Just a stupid little boy, ready to blindly stumble after anybody who offers some candy, and yet… still twisted enough that nobody wants you. How did you manage that? _

“Sam, you need to breathe. Okay? Just—shut up, Cas! Look at him. He’s terrified, so both of you back off and give him some space.”

**Crying. Hiding. Footsteps.**

“Has it occurred to you that fear could make him more dangerous?”

**Splinters. Screaming. Red.**

“Sammy, can you hear me? Can you see me?”

_ Go ahead, Sam. Trust him. He’s so nice to you. He definitely won’t wrap you in a hug so he can prick you with a needle, and you definitely won’t wake up on a rack, and you definitely won’t be begging for death in a matter of hours. Definitely not. _

“Sam? Sam, come on, snap out of it. Bobby, hand me the tissue box. Sam, you gotta stop crying, man. You’re scaring me. Come on, man, deep breath.”

 _“One lash for every tear that hits the ground, Samifer.”_ **Smack.** _Will they take turns?_ **Midnight.** _Do you think they’ll love your screams as much as I did?_ **Choking.** _Or will they clip your vocal chords so they don’t have to deal with your crying and pleading and shrieking?_ **Iron. Hot, hot iron.** _Snip, snip, snip._

“Oh, I’m gonna regret this.”

Sam saw movement in front of his face, a hand coming toward him, and he responded on terror-driven instinct alone. He swung hard, watching his fist clip Dean’s jaw, watching the teeth come together, watching Dean’s face blur with Azazel’s, watching the colors flare and fade, watching his knuckles and knowing there should be pain but feeling none.

He bolted. He ran for the only exit available to him and started down a semi-familiar hall. He felt his pulse in his ears, every other noise muffled by comparison, his own footsteps thundering, echoing off in the distance. It felt like he was moving through molasses, like his—

Sam pivoted to run back the way he had come, processing Castiel’s sudden appearance only after his body made the independent decision to turn.

It made no difference.

Sam was grabbed from behind, arms pinned to his sides, and the second he started struggling, he knew he had lost. Castiel was an angel. Sam wasn’t going anywhere. Sam was helpless.

It was over, and that realization was what finally got the dam behind his eyes to burst, shoulders hunching and head hanging low as he tried to curl in on himself.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

_ I don’t think they’re going to care, Samifer. _

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry…”

_ You punched Dean. You made him bleed. He’ll never forgive you. _

“I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, I’m so sorry…”

_ Don’t feel too bad. It’s not like he trusted you. It’s not like he cared.  _

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

_ Not yet you’re not, Sammy. _

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

**Burns. Cuts. Bruises. Welts. Pain.**

“I’m so sorry…”

_ Not. Yet. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in case it wasn't clear...
> 
> Italics = Sam's Thoughts  
> Italic Quotes = Sam's Memories (Speech)  
> Bold = Sam's Memories (Visual)  
> Underlined Italics = Sam's Self-Deprecating Thoughts as Voiced by Azazel
> 
> But it's all Sam. He's not possessed, he's not telepathically communicating with anyone, it's not Heaven or Hell, it's just Sam. I wanted to use the many formatting tools to kind of give you a visual representation of the chaos in Sam's head. All words, yet no detail, all words, yet different in appearance and tone and volume, all words, all chaos, all Sam.
> 
> Heads up, it gets worse before it gets better.


	8. Chapter 8

“Dean, move. We know Hell will bring him back, and a bullet’s not gonna hurt the angel.”

Dean ignored the hunter behind him, tearing his eyes away from Sam only to look at Castiel. _Tell me you see this. Tell me you see he isn’t a monster._

Castiel didn’t react, and Dean had to laugh inside. Castiel _would_ remember not to read minds the _one_ time Dean actually wanted him to.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m _sorry_ , I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry…” Sam babbled the same phrase over and over, voice cracking repeatedly, head hung down so his bangs covered his face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” His cheeks were streaked with tears, his nose was running, his body was shaking, and he just kept on repeating that same phrase. “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I-I’m sorry, Dean, I’m sorry…”

“Put the gun down, Gordon.” Dean turned his head enough to see over his shoulder, but he kept his body between the pistol and its target. “He’s not gonna attack anybody.”

“He just attacked _you,_ ” Gordon argued, keeping his weapon steady.

“He attacked me because I provoked him,” Dean snapped back. “I knew it would happen. That’s _why_ I provoked him.”

Bobby sat under the arch between the library and hallway, silently looking at Dean with eyes that unconditionally placed the situation in Dean’s hands. He trusted Dean to make the right call.

 _I wish I trusted me to make the right call._ Dean looked back at Sam and sighed. He reached out and slipped his hand beneath Sam’s chin, trying to lift his head. He was unsuccessful, and the attempt only prompted a new flood of tears and rambling apologies.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, I’m sorry, please, no, no, please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

“Gordon, put the gun down.” Dean didn’t let his voice waver, didn’t let any of the doubt he felt show in his stance. “He’s not a monster. He’s a scared kid.” Technically a man, but it was hard for Dean to see the sniveling mess in front of him as anything more than a child. “He hit me because he was scared.” Not that Sam didn’t pack a punch, and not that it didn’t hurt, but Dean couldn’t find it in himself to care.

“Dean, listen to yourself. You heard what your angel said.” If Gordon referred to Castiel as ‘angel’ one more time, it was going to come to blows with or without Sam’s involvement. “He’s Azazel’s Prodigy. You remember Azazel? Killed your mom, killed your dad, took your brother, eventually killed him, tried to kill you—and Sam was his favorite.”

Dean looked at Sam, and he knew Gordon was telling the truth, but he couldn’t see it. He could see Sam as a hunter if he had a stable environment with a team he could trust. He could see Sam as a powerful psychic if he had a chance to recover. He could see Sam exorcising and killing demons when he was hopped up on demon blood.

But Dean couldn’t see the cold-blooded killer; couldn’t see the malice, the sadism, the evil, the _darkness_ people kept trying to tell him was there.

“He wouldn’t tell you about Azazel for a reason,” Gordon continued. “He lied to you about not being able to induce visions, and he didn’t tell you he knew me. He hasn’t told you anything about _any_ of the hunters he’s belonged to. He’s manipulating you, Dean.”

Dean felt a twist in his gut, tendrils of doubt coiling through his insides, and he felt so uncertain compared to the unwavering confidence Gordon presented.

“If Azazel trained him, then Azazel gave him all the information he needed on you. He gave him a list of all the ways to get inside your head. This Sam had to have known about your little brother—they’re the same age, so one would have been training while the other was kidnapped. Dean, it sucks, but this Sam probably _helped_ Azazel take your Sam; probably tortured and killed him. Now he’s playing on that, trying to replace your Sam. Why do you think he picked that name? He—”

“Shut up, Gordon.” Dean spoke in more of a growl than a voice, and he didn’t feel half as sure of himself as he had five minutes earlier. “Just let me think a second.”

Gordon fell silent, just as Dean requested.

Dean looked at Castiel. “You haven’t said much.” Not since Sam had bolted, anyway.

Castiel looked at Sam who, despite being significantly taller, was small and vulnerable in his arms. “I…” Castiel pressed his lips together and shook his head. “I don’t know. I have… reservations.”

That, in and of itself, spoke volumes. Castiel hadn’t had any reservations when he showed up—or at least, it hadn’t sounded like he did. It was hard to tell with Castiel sometimes.

Dean looked at Sam a moment more—looked at the trembling legs and ducked head, listened to the quiet sobs and whimpers—and then cleared his throat. “Cas, let him go.”

Castiel hesitated, giving Dean a look of uncertainty.

“Winchester!” Gordon objected, which Dean fully expected him to do.

Dean ignored them both. “Let him go, Cas. Let him run away.”

Castiel hesitated for another second, and then he dropped his arms.

Sam remained still for a moment, frozen in place, sobbing and muttering under his breath, but then freedom registered. His head snapped up and he looked at Dean, face red and damp, pupils blown wide with terror, and he bolted. He dove around Castiel and shot out the back door faster than Dean thought possible, the screen banging shut behind him.

Dean turned on his heel when he heard footsteps behind him, subconsciously drawing up to his full height and staring Gordon down. “Was it you?” He could scarcely believe the accusation he was making, but he knew how ruthless Gordon could be when it came to the supernatural, and Dean couldn’t think of another reason for Sam to snap so completely in a matter of seconds. “Were you the one that made him afraid of his own shadow?”

Gordon looked at him incredulously. “You think he’s _afraid_ of me? Dean, you haven’t seen him in action. You don’t know what he’s capable of, and you’re insane if you think he won’t rip your throat out first chance he gets.”

Dean felt another wave of doubt crash over him. Because he really _hadn’t_ seen Sam in action. He hadn’t seen Sam high on demon blood, hadn’t been around Sam while he was the vulnerable one—it was Sam who was constantly unconscious or restrained or outnumbered.

“You need to leave.” Dean swallowed and gestured toward the front door, dropping his gaze briefly. “Sorry for dragging you all the way out here, but this isn’t gonna work.”

Gordon looked caught somewhere between indignation and rage. “We’ve worked how many hunts together? How many times have I had your back? How many times have you had mine?”

“I know.” Dean wet his lips and looked down again, his uncertainty swelling before he shoved it back down. Because he _did_ like Gordon, and they _did_ have a history, and they _were_ a great hunting team. “I know, man, but…” He glanced at Bobby briefly, and the unconcerned expression on the older man’s face was everything Dean needed to stand his ground. “I don’t need people who aren’t gonna trust me and follow my lead… even if they don’t agree with my call.”

Gordon looked at him for a long moment, and then he lowered his weapon, a bitter nonchalance shaping his demeanor. “Yeah. Yeah, you know what, you’re right. You got your trust thing, and I can’t be on a team where I can’t call it like I see it.” He freed up his right hand and extended it. “We’ll fight this our own ways.”

“We can still share intel,” Dean agreed, shaking the offered hand. “If we cross paths or you need some help… man, I’m just a phone call away. I’ll be there with a trunk full of salt.” He cracked a small smile, but he could tell it didn’t reach his eyes, and he was certain Gordon could, too.

“Right back at you, brother.” Gordon cracked a smile of his own, equally forced, and then he turned to go down the hall. “I guess it’s good I didn’t get a chance to unpack. You know I hate wastin’ time.”

Dean considered saying something—something lighthearted, some kind of banter to remove the bitter air—but Gordon was gone before he could find his voice.

Bobby pushed his chair into the hallway and looked where Gordon once stood. “You think he’s actually gonna leave?”

“Not a chance,” Dean replied. He shook his head and turned to look at the back door. “We have to find Sam before he does.”

Castiel frowned slightly. “Sam could be anywhere.”

Dean shook his head. “He wouldn’t have gone far.” Then, loathe as he was to admit it, he continued by saying, “Gordon was right. Sam is more than a scared kid. He’s smart, he’s strong, and right now he’s got a pretty freakin’ powerful motivator.”

Castiel and Bobby both nodded in agreement, the latter humming softly.

“He would stick close,” Dean continued. “He thinks we’ll assume he ran as far as he could as fast as he could, so he’ll do the opposite to stay away from where we’re looking. Honestly?” He snorted softly, once again reminded of his ever-growing soft spot. “If we left, he would probably sneak back in here and try to hide in the basement. I mean, you saw him at breakfast, Bobby.”

Bobby nodded a few times with another hum. “Mhm. He likes it here. He definitely likes you.” He nodded toward the bay windows in the library. “Plus, the sky looks like rain. He’ll be wanting somewhere warm and dry to sleep tonight.”

Castiel took a few steps toward the library so he could see the sky. “We can’t leave and wait for him to sneak back in. There’s too great a risk Gordon will find him first.”

“Right.” Dean let out a sigh and rubbed his face. “We can take turns keeping an eye out for Gordon and looking for Sam on foot.”

“Take turns my right foot. I ain’t wheelin’ all over the scrapyard. I’ll watch the front door for Mr. Sunshine, _you two_ can be the search party.” Bobby grumbled something about needing a little more beer and a lot more patience as he rolled toward the kitchen.

Dean turned to Castiel, stared for a moment, and then gave a helpless shrug. “Is it me, Cas? I need you to follow my lead, but… I need to know I’m not screwing this up because I still can’t accept that… that Sam, _my_ Sam is…” He averted his quickly dampening eyes. “My Sam is gone.” His voice cracked on the final word, and he quickly cleared his throat, wiping his eyes. “My Sam is gone, and maybe I just… maybe I want someone to protect so badly that I don’t care who or what he is. His name is Sam, and he’s younger than me, and he acts like he needs an older brother to look out for him, so who cares if he’s the devil incarnate? I mean, is that what’s happening, Cas? Am I losing my head?”

Castiel didn’t say anything, lips twisting thoughtfully as he considered the questions.

“What if Gordon was right? I mean, what if this was the plan? Azazel tells me my Sam is—is gone, and then Lucifer’s Vessel steps in, fills the hole, gets close to Michael’s Vessel, and…” Dean shook his head, dashing his tears away again. If Castiel were anybody else—anybody who hadn’t seen the utter wreck Dean was in Hell—he would have been embarrassed. “I don’t know, Cas. I just don’t know.”

Castiel was silent for a moment more, and it was starting to make Dean’s stomach twist with panic. If Castiel had nothing to say, maybe Dean really had screwed things up beyond all recognition.

Castiel found his voice and looked Dean dead in the eye, speaking in that low, gravelly voice that meant all business and no emotion. He was about to tell Dean the honest truth, no sugar-coating anything, and Dean braced himself.

“Dean, I didn’t rebel against Heaven because you made all the right tactical decisions, or because you never failed, or because I had every confidence you could win. I did it because I watched you sacrifice your comfort, and happiness, and health, and life, and peace time and time again for people you didn’t even know, simply because they needed you.”

Dean swallowed hard, his stomach twisting up as he quickly developed an intense desire to hide. _Don’t talk about me like I’m a good person. I’m not._ He somehow managed to keep his voice steady and ask, “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It means your compassion is what got me to turn my back on everything and everyone I ever knew; because you forgave me when you didn’t have to, and you saved me even after I let you down, and you didn’t give up on me when you should have. If it’s possible for Sam to be saved—be it from his fear or his blood or his own choices—that’s how you’ll do it, Dean. You’ll save him the same way you saved me.”

Dean struggled with his words for a moment, trying to figure out how to proceed without acknowledging anything that had been said because _no, no, no, he was not a good person._ “Okay, but that doesn’t—you said _if_ Sam can be saved. What if he can’t?”

“He—” Castiel stopped, thought for several seconds, and then shook his head. “I can’t answer that, Dean. All I can say is that whatever you choose to do, I will help you. If things go wrong… then they go wrong… and we will make them right again, as we always do.”

Dean inhaled deeply and let out a sigh, spending several moments staring at the floorboards. “Alright.” He rubbed face with a sigh and then clapped his hands together. “What did you get out of your interrogations?”

“I shared much of it prior to Sam running.” Castiel glanced over his shoulder even as he spoke, his mind apparently on Sam’s welfare more than he wanted to admit. “Both Meg and Sarnathul confirmed that Azazel had a military camp of sorts for preparing various eligible candidates to be Lucifer’s vessel. Sam was raised there, and while neither of them could or would confirm where he came from, they both said Sam was there from a young age. Meg first saw him when he was seven, Sarnathul saw him when he was four. It could have been younger, but I don’t know.”

Dean folded his arms over his chest and nodded on a loop, taking in the information and laying it out in his head, trying to figure out what to do. “Okay, Sam was raised in Azazel’s Camp for Special Snowflakes.”

Castiel laughed out loud. “Ah, snowflakes.”

Dean gaped. “Did you just…?”

“Meg explained the joke to me after using the same term. It is very funny now that I understand it.” Castiel smiled for a moment more but then reined himself in. “Ahem. Apologies. Sarnathul became difficult when I questioned Sam’s success, but I made him compliant. He said Sam excelled far beyond the others, and everyone knew he was going to be the vessel, even if no one said it outright. Meg said she doubts there was ever any question. She suspects Azazel had other gifted demons present for the purpose of making Sam stronger or for training his future subordinates.”

Dean ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. “So, where is all that training now? If he’s so good at everything they taught him, what happened?”

Castiel shook his head. “Sarnathul wasn’t able to give me anything—he said the last time he saw Sam, Sam was nineteen and functioning as expected. Meg… she hadn’t seen him in many years, either, but she had some theories. She’s quite intelligent, and a very independent thinker.”

Dean pressed his lips together and tried hard not to smile. _He’s got it sooo bad._ Instead of saying anything to that affect, however, he simply nodded. “Okay, so what did she say?”

“She said there was no way her father would create a weapon he couldn’t control. So, while it’s true he excelled in everything Azazel ordered him to do…” Castiel trailed and looked at Dean expectantly.

Dean immediately understood. “He excelled in everything _Azazel_ _ordered_ him to do. He’s powerful but not independent, so when I killed Azazel—”

“—and he found himself under someone else’s authority—”

“—the power level didn’t matter because all he did was follow the orders he was given. Only that person broke him. Hard.” Dean still had a sinking feeling in his gut that it was Gordon, but he couldn’t prove anything, and Sam never made an accusation, so he would hold off on speculating. “So… if I technically own him now… if I ordered him to use those powers, do you think he would?”

Castiel shrugged with a slight shake of the head. “It’s hard to say, Dean. Much has changed between then and now.” He sobered a bit more—if that was even possible—and glanced at the door again. “Also, keep in mind the source of my information. Both Meg and Sarnathul could have been lying to me about any number of things.”

Dean nodded his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to dismiss the oncoming headache. “Right. Okay, well, we know enough to know he’s powerful but probably won’t protect himself against someone who used to give him orders, which means we still gotta find him first.”

Castiel nodded and started for the door. “I cannot sense his presence, but I can set up a perimeter of… energy, for lack of a human word, so I will feel when anyone enters or exits the scrapyard.”

Dean opened his mouth to ask why Castiel didn’t have one of those up and running all the time, but in true Castiel fashion, the angel was already answering the unasked question.

“It is very exhausting, though, so it would be best to find him quickly.” Castiel stepped outside, holding the door open.

Dean walked through and looked out across the yard, heaving a sigh. _Unless Sam just comes when we call, this is going to take all day._

“Mm, agreed.”

_Are you freaking kidding me?_

“No, it will most definitely take a minimum of twelve to fourteen hours.” Castiel never took his eyes off the cars. “It would be less if we were looking for an inanimate object, but such is not the case.”

Dean rolled his eyes and started off the porch, stopping just a few steps later. He cleared his throat and turned slightly, glancing at Castiel without really looking or making eye contact. “Thanks, by the way.”

Dean expected Castiel to tilt his head, crease his brow, pout his lips, and ask some stupidly endearing question about the obvious like he always did, but Castiel simply nodded.

“You’re welcome.” Castiel paused, and there was a soft smile in his voice when he continued. “Best friends do more than bring pie, Dean.”

Dean snorted, but he was smiling, too. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“I’ll start with the perimeter.”

Just like that, Castiel was gone, and Dean started making his way through the maze of broken down cars and scattered scrap metal.

“Sam! Sam, where are you? Just come on back, man, we’re not mad.” Dean cupped his hands around his mouth. “Sammy!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't help but throw in little bits of Megstiel. It's the only Supernatural ship I have. And Cas with a crush is so freaking adorable I could die, and Dean completely agrees, so there's that, too.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam tried to take steadying breaths, but it was painfully hard. Hiding beneath a car offered him some protection from the sun, but it was still hot, the air catching on the walls of his throat as it went down. He was still crying, though he had managed to stop the noise, and that made deep breaths a little more difficult, as did the panic-induced tightness of his chest.

 _Samifer , _a singsong voice echoed. _I think we need to sit down and ask ourselves some very important questions._

 _Stop it._ Sam clamped his hands over his ears, despite knowing there was nothing to actually hear. _I don’t want to think about it. I can’t think about it. Just leave me alone._

 _You know, just because you hear these thoughts in my voice, it doesn’t make them any less your thoughts. _ Azazel whistled. _My, you’re prone to self-pity, aren’t you?_

Sam grit his teeth and reached out, rubbing his arm against a sharp corner on the broken-down frame. He pushed and scraped, keeping at it until he cut through the skin.

_ Would you like to dye your hair black and get a nose ring? _

Sam scooted a little closer to a piece of cardboard he had pulled under with him, and he started drawing an angel-banishing sigil. That, at least, could temporarily protect him from Castiel.

_Uh-huh… and w here are you gonna run once he’s gone, Sam? _

Sam shook his head, struggling to hear the difference between Azazel’s voice and his own. He pressed himself against the dirt when he heard Dean calling his name. _I’ll figure something out._

 _Oh. You’ll figure something out. _ Azazel murmured, as if whispering to another demon in Sam’s mind. _He’ll figure something out. _ Laughter. _Well, I would love to know how. You spent the first twenty-three years of your life in my camp, and you spent the last three bouncing between owners living highly illegal and highly unusual lifestyles._

Sam felt tears pricing the corners of his eyes. _Well, what am I gonna do? Go back?_

_ Sure. They’ve been calling you for… twenty minutes now? Crawl back with your tail between your legs, pup, and maybe they won’t hurt you too badly. _

Sam wiped his eyes and then went completely still again. _They always intended to hurt me. They definitely aren’t going to change their minds now._ He wished he wasn’t wearing a shirt; even with the shade, it was hot out. _I can’t face Gordon again…_

 _Wah, wah, wah, I can’t face Gordon again. _ Snort. _You won’t drink demon blood, and you won’t do your job as Lucifer’s Vessel, but you won’t tell the opposing side what you know or offer to help; you’re afraid of everything that moves, you don’t know how to take care of yourself, and your idea of a five-year plan is achieving a life where you don’t get beaten by men half your size. Is th ere actually anything you’re good for? Do you have any worth or value at all?_

Sam grit his teeth, tears rolling down his cheeks. He knew it was true, but what was he supposed to do? For as far back as he could remember, someone else had been holding the reins. He was powerful, yes, but so was a nuclear bomb; they still had to be detonated by someone else. How was Sam supposed to be independent after twenty-six years of being a weapon? How was he supposed to stand up for himself? How was he even supposed to know how?

_ Well, it’s actually quite simple. You grow a pair, and you do it. _

_But it hurts!_ Sam gripped his hair, pulling hard enough that it hurt, thoughts tumbling into a rapid, downward spiral. _I can’t say no, I can’t make my own decisions, I can’t rebel because it always hurts. You hurt me, Alistair hurt me, Gordon hurt me—when I follow orders, things don’t hurt, and I just—I just want the pain to stop!_

Azazel sighed and clucked his tongue, disappointed. _Which brings us back to the original solution. Crawl back to them like the mangy dog you are and beg for forgiveness. When they beat you, take it quietly and thank them when they’re done, and if you’re lucky, it’ll hurt less in the long run._

“Sam, wherever you are, it’s been an hour.”

 _What?_ Sam swallowed. _How?_

_ Ooh, looks like you got lost in thought, champ. _

“We’re going inside for a while. Just come join us, and we can talk.”

Azazel whistled. _Go on, Sam, go on! Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?_

Sam bit down on his lip until it bled, waiting until the voices faded to let out a quiet sob. _I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do._ He had never wanted to stay with an owner before, but Dean made him feel happy and safe and warm, and the mocking voice in his head was right about Sam wanting more.

Sam had always watched with longing as families interacted, laughing and touching and loving. He saw things they probably didn’t even know about—he saw the way they gravitated toward each other, the way they looked back multiple times when they parted ways, the way a smile or a laugh showed they were related far more than looks ever could.

_Aww, that’s so poetic, Samifer. But, uh, but you forgot to mention the part where De an doesn’t want anything to do with you. Sure, he’s nice, even to something like you, but he’s a hunter first. You’re a psychic, you’ve got demon blood—quite frankly, given your size, there has to be another monster breed in there somewhere; yeti, maybe?—and as soon as you aren’t useful… bye bye, Sammy._

_Don’t call me that._ Sam curled up on his side, dragging air into his lungs slowly and shakily. _I know what I am. Dean being kind is a reflection of his goodness, not my worth. I, of all people, know that. I… I just have to find a way to leave before I get useless._

Laughter. Loud, sputtering, gasping laughter. _You last e scaped, what? Two years ago? How did that go?_

Sam curled up, clutching his midsection, still able to feel Gordon’s boot sinking into him over and over and _over_ again. Back then, his wrists and ankles had been bound, and he had been blindfolded so he wouldn’t see the next blow coming.

_ Dean’s smarter than Gordon. Ooh, and don’t forget his angel friend. Remember what I told you about Heaven’s Persuasion, Samifer. They’ll have a field day with a freak like you. _

Sam shook himself hard and pushed himself up as much as the car would allow, panting heavily and scooting towards the edge of the vehicle. He held his breath for a moment, listening to his surroundings and hearing nothing, and then he grabbed his sigil and rolled out. He crouched, unwilling to risk standing up, and began to weave his way through the cars toward the outer edges.

 _You’re insufferable, _ Azazel sighed.

Sam moved a little faster, rounding a stack of junked cars and finding a crevice between that pile and another. He sat down to catch his breath, pulling at the scab on his arm until he was bleeding again. He drew another sigil, this time on the side of the car, and he made a new one on the opposite side of his cardboard piece.

 _There should be plenty of stuff around here for me to defend myself with._ Sam could do a lot with a tire iron. Honestly, he could do a lot with a windshield wiper, but the iron would be preferable on all accounts. _I can wait until the sun starts going down, maybe call out to them… if they come here, I can banish Castiel and knock Gordon and Dean unconscious. Might kill Gordon._ He tried not to think about how unperturbed he was by the thought. _I can tie Bobby to his chair, lock the wheels, and keep any weapons out of reach… and then I’ll raid the house. Food, water, maps, weapons, clothes… there has to be a little bit of everything I need in there._ He swallowed hard. _Then I’ll run._

Azazel laughed. _Now, you’re thinking. There’s Azazel’s Prodigy. Oh, I—I promised myself I wasn’t gonna cry. You make Daddy so proud, Samifer._

 _Shut up._ Sam nestled down to wait for twilight, stomach churning uncomfortably as he thought about facing Dean as an enemy. Would he really be able to walk away? To try and figure out how humans were supposed to survive normally when Dean was _right there_ with a house and food and clothing, as long as Sam behaved? Would he really be able to stand there in the shirt Dean gave him, stomach full of the food Dean cooked him, and betray him?

_I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know…_

Sam lowered his face into his hands and started sobbing silently; that time around, the degrading laughter that echoed in his head was his own.

* * *

Sam was expecting to be found eventually, and he planned on calling attention to himself if he wasn’t because he had to draw them away from the house. He wasn’t expecting footsteps to come heavy and fast, coming from the opposite direction of the house, and he pressed himself back against the vehicle with the seventh angel-banishing sigil he had made.

_What the…?_

“You move around a lot, Sam.”

Sam swallowed hard, ice filling his veins at the familiar voice. _I had hoped to deal with Castiel first… I can’t move too far away from my sigils, or I’m screwed._ He gathered what little, laughable courage he had and replied.

“That’s generally what you do when you don’t want to be found.” His heart hammered in his chest. _Disrespectful boys get their tongues cut out, Samifer. _ He moved around the end of the car, bringing Gordon into his line of sight. _Shut up._

“Tell me about it.” Gordon didn’t have a weapon out, but he was confident and smug, swaggering slowly toward Sam. “I had to get here fast.”

Sam opened his mouth ask why but was cut off by the flutter of wings. Sam released the spring-loaded arm he had been holding since early afternoon, hitting the bloody sigil and banishing Castiel before he could get a word out.

“I was hoping you would do something like that.” Gordon laughed, leaning against a nearby car but still giving Sam some space. “I had to run fast so he didn’t sense and intercept me before I got to you. I didn’t really know how you were gonna get rid of him, but I figured…” he shrugged, “…demon legend is definitely gonna know how to knock an angel around.”

Sam took a step back, inwardly scolding himself for the display of weakness while simultaneously screaming at himself to run. _I don’t understand. Why didn’t he want Castiel around?_

“Oh, Sam.” Gordon shook his head and laughed. “Dean kicked me out. He’s convinced you’re just an innocent victim in all this, and the angel sided with him.”

Sam frowned. _That makes no sense._ His frown deepened. _Does he think I’m stupid enough to believe that?_ Azazel laughed. _You are pretty stupid, Samifer._

“Here’s the thing, Sam: I can’t kill you. Hell is just gonna bring you back over and over again. But I _can_ keep you from manipulating good hunters like Dean. He’s been through enough without you coming along and screwing him up in the head.” Gordon pulled two water bottles from his bag, each one filled with blood. “Now, unfortunately, because you just banished the angel, a ton of demons are about to attack the two unsuspecting humans in that house over there.”

 _No._ Sam shook his head, swallowing hard, panic rising in his chest as his senses told him there was demon blood in those bottles. _No, please, no._

“So, you have two options. Either you don’t drink the demon blood, and Dean and Bobby die because you banished their angel. Or you drink the blood, and you show them exactly what kind of monster you are before letting Hell take you back where you belong.”

Sam continued to shake his head, throat suddenly dry and aching for a drink. “I’m not manipulating anyone. Gordon, please—”

“What was that?”

“S-Sir! Sir, please.” Sam’s eyes flickered between Gordon’s face and the blood, red throbbing through his vision with every pound of his heart. “I’m not manipulating Dean. I didn’t—I didn’t have anything to do with him buying me.”

“You think I’ll believe you?” Gordon arched a brow, seeming amused, and he slowly started to tilt and shake the blood bottles.

“If—if it’s all a lie, why would I go save them?” Sam wet his lips, trying to ignore the thunderous sloshing, trying to ignore the way the liquid ran against the plastic so smoothly, just like it would down the sides of his throat. “Why—why wouldn’t I just t-take the demon blood and—and run?”

“For the same reason you’re still hiding in a scrapyard.” Gordon shrugged. “You can’t make it on your own. You’re powerful, yeah, but you’re not the brightest. You need someone to provide the necessities, and that’s Dean. Killing those demons is no skin off your nose, so the tactically wise decision is…” He trailed off, shaking the bottle again. “Tick tock, Sammy.”

“Don’t call me that,” Sam snarled, his defiance lasting for all of three seconds before he heard glass shattering in the direction of the house. He looked toward the racket, then at Gordon, then at the house, and then at the blood. “Sir… sir, please… don’t make me…” He started to shake, eyes watering from frustration and fear while his mouth watered for another reason entirely. “Please, sir.”

Gordon took a few steps forward and held out the bottles.

“Sir…” Sam looked at Gordon with fresh tears rolling down his cheeks, and he didn’t have it in him to care. “We can… we can help them together. Just—just like hunting. It doesn’t—I could—I don’t have to fight this way, sir.”

Gordon shook the bottles again.

Sam choked out a sob. He was seven months sober. Before that, he had almost made it a year. _I don’t want to do this. Oh, God, please, I don’t want to do this._ But it looked and sounded and, even through the plastic, _smelled_ so good. He wanted it. Bad.

 _Castiel, can you hear me?_ Sam doubted it, and even if Castiel could hear Sam, why would he listen? Sam had banished him. _Please, Castiel, I need help. I’m gonna drink it. I know I am. Please, please, please, please, please…_ His mantra continued as he took a few timid steps forward.

Shaking hands closed around the bottles and pulled them close. Sam backed up a bit and set one on the ground. He twisted the cap on the other and gave the substance a long, hard look before putting the rim to his lips. He looked at Gordon, a final plea written in his eyes, but Gordon only smirked and made the universal gesture for drinking.

Sam felt a flash of anger under the self-loathing and fear— _I’m so sorry, Castiel, you have to believe me, I’m so, so sorry—_ and then he tilted his head back. He relaxed his throat and downed two thirds of the bottle before needing air. _I was clean. I was clean for so long, but I didn’t—I didn’t even try to say no. Not really, I’m—I’m weak, and I’m sorry, I wish I was stronger, I wish I was better, I really do, but I’m just not, and I never will be._

Sam hated the taste on his tongue, hated the tingle he could already feel spreading through his body, hated how much he _loved_ and _missed_ and _craved_ those sensations. He hated how much he really didn’t hate it at all. He hated how disgusting he was, hated the power he felt already coursing through his veins. He hated Gordon. He hated Azazel. Most of all, he hated himself.

Sam downed the rest of the bottle and grabbed the other one, running toward the house without giving Gordon so much as a backward glance. He slowed every now and then to drink a quarter of the second bottle at a time, and by the time it was empty, he was close enough to see the back door… and six demons crawling the walls and windows, silhouettes clearly indicating there were more inside.

 Sam reached out a hand and focused, tension traveling through his muscles as a steady buzz started in the front of his brain. He felt the energy around him shift and clash, cold and hot spots taking turns altering the air.

_Now this… this is a Sam that’s worth something._

He couldn’t tell the difference between Azazel’s voice and his own at all anymore.

_Look at you go. You keep drinking blood like this, you’ll be more than ready to run. You won’t have any trouble standing on your own two feet._

Sam shook himself and turned his head to watch the last demon die, throwing out a hand to intercept another on its way to the living room window. “No warning your buddies,” he muttered, rushing to the door as soon as he could feel his feet beneath him again. He passed a couple demons held in hidden traps, and they were even easier to dispose of than the ones outside.

“Dean, it’s been too long.”

“Not long enough.”

Sam froze in the hall. _Alistair._ He balked, looking down at his hands, stained with blood from wiping his mouth. _They’re looking for me._ He heard footsteps overhead and wet his lips. _Gordon gave them my location, they gave Gordon the blood._ He tilted his head back. _This is all my fault._

“Where’s your puppy with the trench coat?”

“Probably on his way here right now to smite you, but that’s just a guess.”

“Has he fixed his, ah, _performance issues?_ Watching him fumble through a fight like a combat virgin is actually getting painful at this point.”

Sam took another step toward the opening that lead to the library. _Once they see what you are, you can never go back. They can’t and won’t forget it. You’re about to lose the only people who have ever been nice to you._ He shook his head. _If I do nothing, I’ll lose them anyway, and it’ll be worse. They deserve to live, they deserve to be safe and happy—I don’t. This is how it should be. This is right._

Sam placed his hand on the wall and closed his eyes, paying attention to the shifting presences in the building. He worked his way through the upper floor, mentally pinpointing and destroying the eight demons he found, waiting until the last one hit the floor to let his hand drop.

“I think that’s my trench-coated puppy dropping your goons upstairs.”

“I don’t think so. We made sure he would be out for a while. But…” there was a grin in Alistair’s nasally voice when he spoke again, “…I do think it’s someone we both know.”

“Alastair.” Sam didn’t even realize it was him talking until the silence went on for more than a second, and he slowly walked around the corner, standing in the doorway to the library. “Get out.”

Alistair smiled—a smile that had always made Sam’s skin crawl—and turned slightly to look at him, standing in the middle of the room with at least ten other demons, unafraid. “We were looking for you, Samifer. Where have you been hiding these last three years, hmm?”

Sam swallowed and set his jaw, staring Alistair down, hoping against hope he could end the fight without using his powers. He could tell from the way the lesser demons started shifting in place that they hadn’t forgotten what Sam was capable of, but Alistair was a different story.

“Out. Now.”

Alistair sighed exaggeratedly and looked at Dean, who was being held in place by two demons just outside the kitchen archway, stage whispering across the room. “He wasn’t always so monosyllabic.”

Sam refused to look at Dean, afraid of what he would find, but he could see enough with his peripheral vision to know Dean was straining against the demons holding him.

“Sam, get out of here. We’ll handle this.”

Sam felt the sting of rejection but didn’t let it show, trying to erase the last three years of unpredictable whirlwinds and return to the state of mind he had possessed under Azazel’s tutelage. _I wasn’t just a weapon, I was the best weapon. I still am. Maybe I never fought back against Azazel or Alistair, and maybe I never acted without orders, but there wasn’t a demon under the sun I couldn’t destroy. I’m still that Sam, I just have to focus._

“Sam, don’t start zoning out again.” Dean spoke more insistently, a faint note of panic in his voice. “Just go.”

“Aww, Dean’s trying to protect you. That’s so sweet.” Alistair made a face. “I think I threw up a bit in my mouth.” He smirked then, keeping both Sam and Dean in his field of vision. “You know who Sam is, don’t you, Dean?”

Bobby responded in Dean’s stead, somewhere on the other side of Alistair where Sam couldn’t quite see him. “No, I just spent months trackin’ him down for kicks and giggles.”

Dean snorted. “How’s it feel to be out-classed by a single human?”

Alistair responded to the question with another question, pushing the conversation back to Sam’s nature. “You know he’s the one who made those bodies drop?” He took a step toward Dean. “Sam isn’t—”

“Alistair!” Sam snapped his fingers, dispatching one of the demons closest to Alistair. “You’re talking to me, not him.”

“You don’t scare me, boy.” Alistair grinned, and all Sam could think was _snake._

“I should. You know what I can do. You taught me some of it.” Sam gestured to the other demons in the room. “They’re scared. They remember me.” _Don’t look at Dean._ “I won’t tell you again to get out.”

“Oh, I think you will. Because _I_ think…” Alistair backed away from Dean and started to creep towards Sam, “…you don’t want them to know what you can do.”

Sam stretched a hand toward three of the demons on his left, fingers curling. They started to choke, slowly collapsing to the ground as black smoke vacated their bodies. “I don’t care if they see what I can do.” He glared and the smoke sparked and flickered and turned to ash.

“Ooh, you’re brave.” Alistair approached, grinning up at him. “You’re a liar, and you’re holding back, but you’re brave.” He licked his lips, hungry eyes wandering over Sam’s body like a lion examining a steak. “Was he _nice_ to you, Sam?”

Sam’s hand started to shake, his mind losing focus, the buzz spreading through his brain and winding down his spine.

“Well, was he?” Alistair grabbed Sam’s wrist in a vicelike grip, lips parting in a wicked grin. “Did he make you feel good about yourself?”

“Shut up,” Sam muttered, hand shaking harder. _I have to focus. I have to focus. If I can’t focus, I can’t attack._

Which was the point, of course. For all his bravado, Alistair wasn’t an idiot—he knew the only thing standing between him and a painful death was Sam’s lack of mental clarity.

“You always did have an obsession with humans. I told Azazel to beat it out of you, but… he wasn’t as _committed_ as he should have been.” Alistair continued to hold Sam’s wrist, but he didn’t do anything with it.

_Because if he causes pain, I’ll use it to ground myself. Come on, Sam, get a grip! You know you can destroy him. It’s not hard._

But Dean was _right there._

Sam once again tried to use a smaller attack to convince Alistair to leave. He relaxed his arm, expressing no outward effort whatsoever as two more demons collapsed to the floor. “I’m not a child anymore, Alistair.”

Alistair exhaled sharply. “Thank Lucifer for that. You were so much more _annoying_ with a higher voice. Always crying, always whining, always unhappy about _something._ ” He turned his head to look at Dean, using his nasally voice to his full advantage as he mocked a much younger Sam. “‘Why can’t I have a family?’ ‘Why don’t I get to go to the park?’ ‘I don’t _wanna_ kill people.’ Whine, whine, whine. Thankfully, it stopped after we cut his vocal chords… or burned them… or used acid… there were a lot of ways to shut up an unhappy Sam.”

Sam grit his teeth, trying to think of a response, trying to get himself together enough to end the fight. _I can do this. No, you can’t. Yes. I. Can._

“Maybe you should’ve joined a support group for single dads.” Dean’s drawl was unsympathetic and cold, and a quick glance told Sam his eyes were focused entirely on Alistair. “You wanna get some chocolate ice cream, talk about the struggles of parenting, have a little share and care time?”

Alistair only smiled more and dropped Sam’s hand, stalking closer to Dean and the two demons holding him in place. “Something wrong, Dean? You don’t want to hear all about what we did to Sam?”

Sam’s face started to turn red, and he did his best to banish the notion of embarrassment. _Dean stood up for you. No one’s ever done that. Do this for him. He deserves everything you can give. Focus, focus, focus._ But it was so hard when Alistair kept talking, kept pouring salt in his old, half-scarred wounds.

“How he screamed louder than you ever did when he was under my knife? Or how he liked to draw pictures of his pretend family? I always loved watching his face when Azazel burned them.”

Sam kept his hand slightly outstretched and took a steadying breath, eyes gently closing as he struggled to get a hold on his own mind. _Take a deep breath, find the power, and push it forward._

“He might have been Azazel’s pet project, but every now and then I’d pop in for a visit, and I would sit Sam down, and I would show him a picture of your baby brother—”

“Shut up,” Dean growled.

“—and I would say, ‘See this little kid here, Sam? He has a family out there looking for him, unlike you. Nobody’s looking for you, Sam, because nobody cares.’”

Sam’s fingers curled slightly, the buzz in his neck turning to pain as the power surged back up his spine. _Come on, come on, come on…_

“‘Nobody cares about monsters, or demons, or stupid little boys who don’t know how to follow orders, so they definitely aren’t going to care about you.’ And Sam would make this awful racket for hours, crying like a little bitch and begging me—”

“Shut your mouth.” Dean spat the words through clenched teeth. “I’m the only one who gets to call him that.”

Sam opened his eyes and blinked several times, caught off-guard by the statement, and he turned his head to look at Dean for the first time since he entered the room.

Dean was staring right back, a light smirk curling his lips. “Isn’t that right, Sammy?”

Sam barely managed to get out a reply, afraid he was imagining things, afraid a third voice had entered the monologue in his head to represent wishful thinking.

“Jerk.”

Dean smiled like the sun, showing his bloody teeth, eyes shining with something Sam didn’t recognize or understand. It was exactly what Sam needed. He grabbed that last bit of focus, his pain fading away as the vibrations rattled through his skull once more.

Alistair sighed. “Oh, don’t tell me y—”

Alistair locked up, overtaken by Sam’s power.

Sam held one hand out toward Alistair, using the physical act to hold most of his focus there while a few tendrils whipped out to attack the demons restraining Bobby and Dean. It wasn’t enough to kill—not while he was holding Alistair—but it was enough for them to get the upper hand.

Sam narrowed his gaze, and for a moment, he saw true fear in Alistair’s eyes. He swallowed hard, locked in his fingers in a curled, not-quite-fisted position, and pushed even harder. He didn’t say a word—he didn’t have to, didn’t want to; he just wanted Alistair gone—and the only distraction he made note of was the blood running from his nose.

Alistair started to scream, the sound underscored by a flutter of wings, and he began to glow orange, and red, and yellow, and fire, and _death, and revenge, and freedom, and finally, finally, finally._

Sam felt the blood pouring over his lip, felt the strain behind his eyes, sensed the mounting migraine. He felt Alistair’s body caving, crumbling beneath the pressure, bones and tissue and organs all grinding into mush the longer Sam’s powers racked the vessel. He could feel his hand shaking, he _couldn’t_ feel his legs beneath him, and he knew it was make-it-or-break-it time. So, with a deep breath and a final surge of determination, Sam clenched his hand into a fist and channeled every bit of energy, every atom of power, every fiber of his being into destroying Alistair beyond all recognition.

It felt _good._ It felt like freedom.

Because Sam was in control, and Sam didn’t _have_ to do anything. He didn’t _have_ to save Dean and Bobby, he didn’t _have_ to kill the demons without harming their vessels, he didn’t _have_ to destroy Alistair.

But he wanted to. So, he did.

It was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time, and Sam knew he would come down from his high with an innate desire to please and obey, but he didn’t care. He knew if Dean told him to stop, he would, for fear of losing favor, because he was so _desperate_ for approval that he may as well have put himself on a leash.

But there, in that moment, feeling Alistair break apart beneath his will…

Sam took care of himself. Sam did what he wanted. Sam was the good guy.

And it felt like freedom.

And it felt _good._


	10. Chapter 10

Dean didn’t know what Sam did, but whatever it was, it made both of the demons holding him screw their eyes shut and yell in pain.

Dean kicked the demon on his left, hitting her knee sideways and pulling his arm free in the shock that followed. “Bobby, the knife!”

Bobby grabbed the blade from a compartment beneath his chair and threw it to Dean in one, fluid motion, moving too fast for the demon behind him to interfere.

Dean caught the knife with his free hand and stabbed the demon still hanging onto him, shoving the body aside as the lights inside began to flicker out. He turned on the spot and knifed the one he’d kicked, pulling the blade free of skull and brain tissue with a grunt. He turned again with the intent to kill the demon closest to Bobby, but there were fluttering wings and suddenly, the knife was unnecessary.

“Took you long enough!” Dean snapped.

Castiel dropped the demon corpse to the floor, deadpan. “Sam banished me.”

Dean didn’t even consider a reply, the mere mention of Sam’s name sending his train of thought down a completely different track. He left the remaining demons to Castiel and turned to look at the archway between the library and the hall, eyes fixating on Sam as everything went from frenzy to frozen.

Sam was standing tall, broad-shouldered, confident like Dean had never seen, and despite the tear tracks still evident on his cheeks, his eyes were cold and set and growing progressively blacker. Blood was coming from his nose, painting his mouth and chin in red. His hand was extended, slowly clenching, crushing the life out of Alistair, and for a moment, Dean saw it.

He saw the Eye of Hell’s Hurricane. He saw what everyone was so afraid of, and his stomach bottomed out, doubt surging through him. He tried to reconcile the Sam of the past several days with the Sam standing in front of him, smiting a demon with sheer willpower, but it was hard. Just as he had been unable to see a crying, cowering, hysterical Sam as anything but a child, he found himself unable to see the Sam in front of him as anything but the monster everyone said he was.

Dean felt a twist in his gut. _Has he been playing me this whole time?_

Time resumed, and Alistair screeched, howling to the ceiling before he imploded, demon and vessel alike exploding inward. Sam slouched as soon as Alistair was gone, but he didn’t stay down for long, and before Dean knew it, Sam was extending a hand toward the window.

“There are more outside.” Castiel explained the seemingly aimless attack, smiting the last demon in the room before disappearing, no doubt doing his own part in keeping the enemy away.

Dean looked back at Sam, horrified to find blood had started to leak from Sam’s eyes as well, his body trembling with effort.

“Sam, stop!” Dean was running across the room before he could think better of it, but he stopped short of grabbing Sam by the shoulders because—he realized with no small amount of pain and shock—he was afraid of what Sam would do to him. “Sam, you gotta stop. Cas is here, he can get them. You’re hurting yourself.”

 _You’re hurting yourself?_ As if something as powerful as Sam needed someone like Dean to take care of him. _Has he ever actually needed me?_ Dean was starting to doubt it more with every passing second.

But Sam dropped his arm and staggered backwards, hitting the framework of the archway. He struggled to stand on shaky legs, eyes wide and panicked as the black hue started to recede into the whites. “It’s—it’s over?” He moved his hand like he wanted to wipe his face but couldn’t, and his chest heaved with rasping breaths that didn’t seem to do him any good. “I… I don’t… I…”

Dean watched Sam, wondering what was going to happen next. What about Sam was truly different? Obviously, he was insanely powerful with the demon blood in his system, but how much of his personality had been affected? He seemed normal enough, stammering and jumpy and afraid, but it was hard for Dean to get that calculated, cold-blooded killer look out of his head. Was Sam still Sam after that? Had he ever been?

Sam responded to the silent questions with frightened eyes and a choked, “Dean, I—”

“Sam, it’s okay.” Dean chose to give Sam the benefit of the doubt and reached out to take a shaking shoulder in one hand.

“No!” Sam threw himself back before Dean could make contact, clipping the archway as he half stumbled half fell against the bookcase in the corner. “Don’t touch me!”

Dean cautiously approached, still holding out a hand, the tears in Sam’s eyes quickly smothering the doubts in Dean’s mind. “Sam, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“Stay away!” Sam cried, holding both his hands out. It wasn’t like his attack on Alistair, fingers curled and purposefully aimed. It was frantic, hands splayed in a thoughtless gesture of instinct.

“Sam, it’s okay.” Dean got close enough and crouched down, softening his voice. “I’m not mad. It’s okay.”

Sam flinched back when Dean reached for him again. “I’m dirty, Dean, don’t touch me!”

Dean’s face screwed up, physical pain cutting into his sternum. “Sam…”

“Don’t—don’t touch me. I’m dirty.” Sam choked back a sob and shook his head. “Don’t touch me, Dean.”

Dean shook his head, dropping his hand for the moment. “Sam, you’re not dirty. You did what you had to. You saved us.”

“I’m disgusting!” Sam pulled his hands closer to himself and stared at them in horror. “Just—just look at me.” He extended them again to display all their bloodstained glory. “I’m filthy, I’m—I’m tainted, and you’re—you’re not, you’re so good and kind and—just don’t. Don’t—” his voice cracked, another sob escaping his lips and he drew his hands in close again. “Don’t touch me.”

Dean’s first instinct was to explain that, no, Dean was not good and kind, but it was quickly overpowered by the sight of Sam in pain. Who cared what Sam thought of Dean when Sam’s view of himself was so skewed?

“I’m sorry, Dean, I’m sorry. I wanted to be good, I—I really did, but I—I’m just _not._ ”

“Sam…” Dean started to move his jaw, struggling with his words for a moment before deciding on simplicity. “You’re not disgusting.”

“Yes, I am!” Sam cut Dean off before he could go any further, clutching his head and pushing himself deeper into the corner. “I am. I _am._ Tell him, Castiel!”

Dean looked over his shoulder, finding Bobby and Castiel were just a couple yards behind him. Apparently, the fight was over, and as far as Sam was concerned, they were just as dumbfounded as Dean.

“Castiel, tell him!” Sam gestured frantically, but he curled up again as soon as Dean looked at him. “I’m—I’m an unholy abomination. Everything from Heaven to Hell is disgusted by me, and I—I’m just _wrong,_ I’m all wrong, I was _born_ wrong. Castiel, you have to _tell_ _him_. Tell him I—”

“That’s enough, Sam.” Castiel’s voic was sharp and unwavering, and Dean might have been looking at Sam, but he could picture Castiel’s face—he could picture that cold concern, that fear of attachment blended with a desire to protect.

Sam only grew more upset by Castiel’s refusal to condemn him, and he shook his head. “No, you don’t—” He drew his knees up to his chest and put his head down, shaking it vigorously. “You don’t understand, you don’t understand! You don’t—you don’t _understand!_ ”

“Sam…” Dean began to inch closer, trying to figure out the best way to get Sam out of the corner. “Sam, just listen a sec—”

Sam’s head snapped up, tears rolling down his cheeks, not a single shred of doubt or hesitation in his words. “I am _poison,_ Dean! I’m weak and stupid, and I can’t follow orders, and I ruin everything. It doesn’t get better, it only gets worse, _I_ only get worse, and you have to stay away from me! Because this— _this_ will always happen, and I don’t—I don’t want you to get hurt, Dean, I don’t—”

Dean closed the distance and took Sam by the shoulders. “C’mere.”

“Dean, don’t!” Sam tried to pull back, but Dean kept dragging him closer. “Dean!”

It took a little finagling, but Dean got Sam leaned against his chest, and then he gently worked his hands underneath Sam’s arms. He went from crouching to sitting and pulled Sam into his lap, wrapping him up in a tight hug. Dean rubbed Sam’s back, resting his chin on Sam’s head, not saying anything, waiting for the hysterics to subside on their own.

“Dean…” Sam whimpered. “Please… you’re gonna get dirty.”

Dean pursed his lips and shook his head. “Nah.”

“D-Dean…?” Sam shuddered violently, his voice congested. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s okay, Sammy, I’ve got you.” Dean felt a dull ache settling in his chest, the barbs of sharper pain giving way beneath the crushing weight of witnessing such absolute self-loathing. “Everything’s okay. I’m just giving you a hug.”

“No, I don’t…” Sam squirmed a little, but Dean didn’t let go. “I don’t deserve this…”

Dean carded a hand through Sam’s hair and squeezed him briefly. “Yeah, you do.”

Dean didn’t expect it to be so immediate. He didn’t expect Sam to need him—to need to be _held_ —so desperately. He didn’t expect Sam to give up the fight so willingly, to run headlong into affection he didn’t believe could be genuine.

But that was exactly what happened.

Sam slowly started to move, adjusting his body so he was more comfortable and pressing up against Dean as tight as he could. He slid out from beneath Dean’s chin and pressed his face into Dean’s shoulder, tears soaking into the collar of Dean’s shirt.

Sam clung to Dean like a lifeline, squirming in his lap, gripping his flannel, trying to burrow into his chest. Sam shook, terrified and exhausted, but he didn’t ask for any kind of relief; he simply held onto Dean, simply rubbed his head against Dean’s chest, simply made himself so much smaller than should have been possible so he could hide away in the safety of Dean’s arms.

Sam simply let himself break, quiet cries escalating into violent sobs that racked his body, often bordering on screams of confusion and fear and frustration and panic.

Dean remained silent and still for a few minutes, but he quickly found he didn’t have it in him to be embarrassed about the chick-flick moment, even with Bobby and Castiel standing right behind him. So, Dean started rocking slightly, still holding Sam as close as he could, and he began to sing, humming the instrumentals when necessary.

“Hey Jude… don’t make it baaad… take a sad sooong and make it better…”

Dean didn’t know how long he sat there singing, but he knew he didn’t stop until Sam was sleeping soundly in his arms, hands loosely fisting Dean’s shirt as he tumbled into a safe, secure sleep for the first time in… well, Dean didn’t want to know how long it had been.

“Bobby.” Dean screwed his eyes shut, and his voice did _not_ crack. “Tell me again.”

For a second, there was nothing, and then Bobby answered simply and softly.

“You aren’t betraying our Sam by being this Sam’s big brother, Dean.”

Dean wet his lips and nodded. “Cas?”

There was another brief silence, and then Castiel’s rumbling baritone floated across the room. “If Sam can be saved, and I believe he can, this right here is how you’re going to do it.”

Dean said nothing, holding on a little tighter, letting himself admit for the first time that it was time to move on. His Sam was dead—years of denial had done nothing to change that—and Dean had two options. He could either keep looking for a Sam he was never going to find, or he could face the truth and take care of the Sam that was right in front of him.

_I’ve got you, Sammy. You’re gonna be okay. I’m here now, and I’m gonna be your big brother, and I’m gonna take good care of you. I promise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kill me now. Just kill me now.
> 
> Now that perspectives will be changing less frequently, you get three longer chapters to close out the story. Castiel, then Sam, and then Dean.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the day I was supposed to post this chapter, I decided I wanted to take it in a completely different direction, so I scrapped the whole thing and started over, hence the slight delay.

Castiel was a patient angel. He first proved this by not strangling Dean Winchester within five minutes of meeting him, and then he continued to prove it by somehow managing to not choke, smack, smite, or otherwise unleash wrath upon Dean Winchester in the days that followed.

He still maintained that he deserved some kind of medal for that.

Conversely, guarding Sam while he slept was a walk in the proverbial park, even after Sam started to moan and twist in the sheets. All it took was a calming phrase or two from Castiel, and he would fade back into peaceful slumber.

Until he didn’t.

“Sam.” Castiel sat on the edge of the bed, concern creasing his brow. “Sam, it’s alright. Go back to sleep.” He briefly considered withdrawal symptoms, but he couldn’t imagine they would have taken so long to kick in. “Sam?”

Sam jolted awake with his head turned toward the far wall, staring blankly for several seconds before anything seemed to register. His chest was heaving, a thin sheen of sweat coating his body. His fingers curled through the bedsheets as he fought to ground himself, out of breath and disoriented.

“Sam—”

Sam startled. Violently.

So violently, in fact, that Castiel barely managed to reach across the bed and grab him before he could roll away, no doubt intending to run. But barely was still success, and once Castiel had a hold on Sam, it was painfully easy to pin him down; one hand on his shoulder, one hand on his stomach, a hard stare, and a rumbling command was all it took.

“Sam, be still.”

Sam squirmed, but it was a token resistance. “C-Castiel—”

Castiel cut him off with a glare. “That is not being still.”

Sam swallowed hard and buckled under the weight of the unwavering gaze. “Sorry.

Castiel held Sam down for another moment or two, and then he eased up, though he didn’t fully remove his hands. He scanned Sam’s eyes—wide and confused and eternally fearful—and slowly began to work his mouth, hoping whatever he said sounded comforting when it came out.

“How are you feeling?” That was a safe question. Probably.

Sam swallowed thickly. He didn’t move. “I—I feel fine.”

Castiel nodded slightly. “That’s good to hear. I healed your superficial wounds, but I can only sense so many of your internal injuries before there is… interference.” He slowly removed his hands, pleased to see Sam didn’t move away. “You killed Alistair, and with your help, the demons have been taken care of.”

Sam turned to look at the wall and gave a jerky nod, wetting his lips.

“Most of the demons you expelled had been occupying deceased vessels, but three of them were taken to the local hospital. They are confused and far from home, but they seem to be otherwise healthy.” Castiel watched Sam carefully, trying to figure out what was going on in that carefully warded head of his.

Sam didn’t do much to help Castiel figure things out. His gaze lingered on the wall without change, his body was still, and his mind was as closed off as ever.

“Something is troubling you.” Castiel paused, tilted his head, and scrutinized Sam like he was seeing him for the first time. “Dean says you’re afraid of me. You also gave me that impression last night.”

Sam neither confirmed nor denied. He simply stared at the wall in silence.

“Do you fear me, Sam?” Castiel pressed, using an unwavering tone that seemed to spur Sam into action every time it was used.

Sam bit his lip briefly, color rising in his cheeks. “Yes.”

“You have nothing to fear from me. I don’t intend to hurt you. I don’t _want_ to hurt you.” Castiel watched carefully, but Sam’s face gave no indication he was assured. “I can’t sense it, if that’s what worries you.”

Sam glanced at Castiel for a fraction of a second, but shame dragged his eyes back to the far side of the room. “But you know it’s there.”

_“Castiel, tell him! I’m—I’m an unholy abomination. Everything from Heaven to Hell is disgusted by me, and I—I’m just wrong, I’m all wrong, I was born wrong. Castiel, you have to tell him. Tell him I—”_

Castiel conceded to the truth of the statement with a nod. “Yes, I know it’s there.”

Sam pressed his lips together and stared at the wall some more, his expression bearing some kind of gloating defeat. So certain his poor opinion of himself was the correct one. So proud of his ability to stand up for the truth of his inhumanity. Like a martyr without a cause.

“Sam, there is more to you than your blood.” Castiel kept his eyes on Sam, watching the tension swell. “Your character. Your actions and choices. Your soul.”

Sam gripped the sheets, his breath hitching.

Castiel softened his voice. “You have a beautiful soul, Sam.”

Sam didn’t say anything for a moment, his lips pressed together tightly, but then he turned. He looked at Castiel with something like adoration in his eyes and whispered, “I do?”

Castiel smiled warmly, and while affection didn’t come naturally to him, he thought he must have done something right for a little smile to appear on Sam’s face as well. “It’s very bright, Sam, though your light is more gold than white or silver. There are shades of blue and purple, no hard edges, no dark spots… there are many, many cracks, but any angel will tell you that all the best souls are broken. That’s how the light shines through.”

Sam looked at Castiel for a long moment, and then he quickly looked away, eyes glassy. Castiel couldn’t tell if they were happy tears or not; honestly, as far as he was concerned, a bodily function that accompanied multiple, sometimes _opposite_ emotions was a confusing and pointless state of affairs. How was Castiel supposed to know what saline meant?

“That’s why there is always so much stained glass in your churches, you know.” Castiel didn’t know why he kept talking, but he liked the way Sam’s shoulders were starting to relax. “It was the best we could do to help you understand what souls look like. All these broken pieces of glass, cracked apart and yet together, with light pouring through, shining brighter through certain colors, casting a little bit of its own patterns and hues onto everything in its path.” He shook his head slightly. “You cannot begin to fathom how breathtaking it is, but we gave you stained glass to give you as much understanding as we could.”

Sam scratched at his hands, eyes occasionally flickering up to look at Castiel, and while the information about souls seemed to comfort him, there was still something crawling around under his skin. “I…”

Castiel looked at him, patient as ever, and waited.

“I—I’m really sorry.” Sam sniffed and reached up to wipe his eye with his sleeve, cheeks burning. “I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t have banished you. I’m really sorry, I thought…” He shook his head, once again incapable of looking at Castiel. “It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have banished you. I’m really sorry.”

Castiel pursed his lips and shook his head. “You were trying to survive. Personally, I found your tactics rather resourceful.” He was, after all, a soldier at heart, and Sam had made a smart move.

“But I… I didn’t really have a right to run. I bel—”

“Sam.” Castiel tilted his head slightly, frowning. “If a simple banishing sigil could damage me enough to warrant an apology, I don’t think I would worth fearing.”

Sam wet his lips, struggled with his words for a moment, and then he sank deep into the sheets. He thought for a moment, opened his mouth, closed it, and eventually decided to change the subject.

“I never thanked you.”

Castiel arched a brow.

“Back at the auction house… when Dean bought me… you carried me out, and I never thanked you.” Sam pulled the covers up to his chin, as if he could prevent emotional vulnerability by placing a physical barrier around himself, however flimsy that barrier might have been. “It was… I, uh, I never…”

Castiel went from arching his brow to furrowing it, his confusion growing with every passing second. He didn’t understand humans. He really, really didn’t, and the longer he was around them, the more he began to think he never would.

“No one ever…” Sam fell over his words for a few moments, and then he curled up facing the wall he was so fond of, appearing equal parts nervous and embarrassed. “I don’t know. I was just… always dragged or thrown over someone’s shoulder or… or…”

There were a few more seconds of confusion, and then Castiel understood. He thought back to the auction house; to the look on Sam’s face when Castiel lifted him from the floor in a bridal-style carry. He recalled the way Sam gripped the outermost hem of his coat, no doubt hoping Castiel wouldn’t notice, and the brief tightening of Sam’s fist with every hole the attendant punched into his ear.

“You’re welcome.” Castiel felt a small smile pull at his lips. “I guess you could say I, uh, gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.”

Sam blinked and stared at him, clearly not understanding.

Castiel looked away and muttered an awkward reply, wondering for the millionth time why he even bothered try. “It is funnier in Enochian.”

And then, to Castiel’s surprise, Sam laughed. It was quiet and hesitant, like Castiel would unleash some sort of holy wrath if Sam outright mocked him, but it was kind and genuine, and there was a spark of life in his eyes.

“So, it’s like a joke?” Sam asked, biting on his lip, pulling his covers up a little higher.

Castiel still felt like Sam looked at him and saw some kind of terrifying monster, but Sam was making conversation, so the least Castiel could do was return it with as little scariness as possible. “Yes, of sorts.”

Sam shook his head slightly. “I’ve never been good at jokes.”

Castiel offered a small smile. “Tell me one.”

“Oh, I…” Sam cleared his throat and looked at the wall again. “Um, I… okay. Uh, why was six afraid of seven?”

Castiel pondered the query for a moment. “Well… I assume it’s because seven is a prime number, and prime numbers _can_ be intimidating.”

Sam tried not to smile as he shook his head. “No, it’s because seven ate nine.”

Castiel frowned and cocked his head, speaking slowly. “Numbers are metaphysical concepts. They cannot consume each other.”

Sam smiled a little more, though he clearly tried to hold it back. “I told you I wasn’t any good.”

Castiel contemplated Sam for a moment, and then he cracked another small smile. “That makes two of us.” Then, after a brief pause. “You and I are not so different, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes widened, and he shook his head emphatically. “Castiel, you’re—”

“I’m a rebel,” Castiel interrupted firmly, “who turned my back on the one thing I was trained my entire life to do because I believed it was wrong. What are you, Sam?”

Sam’s lips moved for a moment, but nothing came out. He rolled onto his left side so he was facing Castiel’s side of the bed, no longer able to stare at the wall to distract himself. “I don’t know what I am.”

“That, once again, makes two of us. But we’ll find out, I think.” Castiel heaved a soft sigh and let his eyes roll upward slightly, mimicking the action Dean so often employed to show his exasperation. “And I think it will be all Dean’s fault.”

Sam smiled to himself and then yawned, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth.

“You should get some more sleep. Dean and Bobby are doing the same.”

Sam nodded slightly, but he didn’t close his eyes. He remained curled up under the blankets and, after a second of hesitation, moved a little closer to Castiel. “Could you… um, if I have any nightmares, or… could you maybe…”

“Watch over you?’ Castiel nodded. “Of course. I have been doing so for… eight hours, twenty-seven minutes, and eleven seconds. I didn’t intend to stop.”

Sam smiled slightly, letting his eyes flutter shut. He evened out his breathing and relaxed into the mattress, a soft sigh passing his lips.

Castiel waited a few moments and then adjusted his position, sitting on the edge of the bed and facing the wall in front of him with a straight back and squared shoulders.

“Castiel?”

Castiel inclined his head toward Sam but didn’t otherwise move. “Yes?”

“Thank you for telling me my soul is beautiful.”

Castiel frowned slightly, but he got the feeling he’d been made. “I simply—”

“I know you can’t see it. I know it’s just as guarded as the rest of me.” Sam smiled, eyes still closed, and he looked more peaceful than Castiel had ever seen him while conscious. “I don’t know what I did to make you want to tell me such a nice lie, but… it made me feel better. So, thank you.”

Castiel didn’t say anything for a moment, lips pouting slightly. “I didn’t lie.” He put his attention back on the wall in front of him. “I used my knowledge of souls and prior experience to approximate, based on your character, what your soul looks like.” Maybe he had taken a few liberties, excluded a few darker features, and played up the brighter ones, but… “Your soul _is_ beautiful, Sam. One does not need angelic sight to know that.”

Sam didn’t say anything, and Castiel was no longer looking at him, so he didn’t know what kind of expression Sam was making.

Castiel reached out behind himself to the left, feeling around until he found Sam’s arm. He took it in hand and gave it a squeeze. “Go to sleep, Sam. I will be here when you wake. Unless, of course, I am banished or die, but that is not likely.”

Sam put his hand over Castiel’s for a moment, but then he let go, leaving Castiel to maintain the physical contact of his own accord.

And Castiel did. He held onto Sam’s arm and stared at the wall, listening to the soft sounds of sleep. He didn’t move for the next hour and ten minutes, and then he fished his phone from his pocket, flipping the device open and scrolling through all three of his contacts.

_Bobby_

_Dean_

_Meg_

Castiel pressed the green button and put the phone to his ear, glancing at Sam from time to time to ensure he showed no signs of waking.

“You better have a good reason for calling me after—”

“I need you to kill someone for me. I am currently indisposed.”

There was a pause, and then Meg’s breathy laughter came across the line. “You really know what a girl likes, don’t you, Clarence?”

Castiel let out a sigh and rolled his eyes, glancing at Sam again. “His name is Gordon Walker. I would do it myself, but—”

“You’re indisposed?” Meg hummed, amused. “You better not have a side girl. I’m all about exclusive relationships.”

Castiel blinked, his face screwed up with confusion. “What?”

Meg sighed. “Just tell me who this guy is.”

“He’s a hunter. Sam’s previous owner. Someone I greatly dislike.” Castiel paused briefly, contemplating the dangers of sharing information with the enemy, but in the end decided the potential benefit was worth it. “What do you know of the attempted attack last night?”

“Enough for me to start the conversation with, ‘You better have a good reason for calling me after what happened last night.’ Or I would have, if you had let me finish.” Meg paused, and there was genuine curiosity in her voice when she spoke again. “Why?”

“I haven’t figured out exactly what happened—one of my witnesses is unconscious—but I know Gordon Walker was involved.” He paused, once again waffling on the decision to share intel. “You… know why Alistair came here, yes?”

“Yeah, to get Sam. By the way, super offended you phrased all your interrogation questions as if you were trying to hunt Sam down.” Despite her words, Meg chuckled, and Castiel knew she found their game of cat and mouse far more amusing than irritating. She enjoyed the chase more than the kill, which was something he could relate to.

“I wasn’t about to tell you we had Lucifer’s vessel.” Castiel sighed, feeling his frustration spike briefly. “Look, none of that is of import. Sam destroyed many demons, including Alistair, using his abilities. I was trying to determine where he obtained demon blood, so I returned to the last place I saw Sam unintoxicated, which was right before he banished me, so—”

“He _banished_ you?”

Meg burst into hysterics before Castiel could say another word, leaving the angel to sit on his end of the line and glare at the wall. It lasted for a full thirty-seven seconds, which was entirely too long, because it really _wasn’t_ funny, and then it started to subside.

“Are you finished?”

Meg let out a few more peals of laughter, and then she sighed. “Ah, it’s been a long time since I laughed like that. Thanks, Clarence.” She chuckled again, still pleased with her newfound knowledge. “So, you went back to the site of your defeat and…?”

Castiel considered keeping quiet just for spite, but, ever the tactician, he did the logical thing in the end. “I knew he had to have obtained the blood between… banishing me and me returning.”

She laughed again. Of course.

“ _Anyway,_ I found an emptied bottle of demon blood. Between that location and the site of the attack—” he carefully avoided any reference to Bobby or his scrapyard, “—I found another one. Someone provided Sam with demon blood, and I know it wasn’t Hell.”

“Hey, they might have underestimated Sam, figured he would fight on their side. It wouldn’t be the first time.” Meg didn’t sound concerned; he could practically hear the shrug in her voice. “Alistair always had a big ego. I couldn’t stand him. Or his voice. Ugh.”

Castiel grimaced. “We are in agreement there.” He sobered quickly. “But Sam was relatively far from the site of the attack, and he came to the fight, not the other way around.”

“Okay, so… what? You think this Gordon guy gave it to him?”

“I do.” Castiel frowned slightly. “I haven’t quite worked out where he got the blood, but he is an accomplished hunter, so it wouldn’t have been hard. He had just argued with Dean, and he was trying to…” he trailed off, realizing what transpired regarding Sam was a little more private than battle strategies, “…essentially, he wanted us to take more conservative measures with Sam.”

“So, he was trying to convince you Sam was a bigger threat than he was?” Then Meg corrected herself, and there was a kind of understanding in her voice that made Castiel think she knew Sam better than she let on. “He was trying to show you how powerful Sam is, because you were lost in the Bambi eyes.”

“Bambi? Is that some kind of monster?”

“Oh, yeah. Real fearsome. Look it up.” Meg snorted and then paused briefly. “So, you think Gordon gave Sam the blood and kicked him toward the fight to make him use his mojo?”

Castiel’s nose crinkled at the familiar term—Dean used it all the time to refer to Castiel’s Grace—but he nodded all the same. “Yes, I believe so.”

“Consider him dead.”

Castiel blinked. “That… was surprisingly easy.”

“What can I say? My standards are low. For murder, anyways.”

Castiel opened his mouth to question her willingness, suspicion swirling in the pit of his stomach, but he stopped short when Sam shifted in his sleep. “Wait,” he whispered.

Sam moved again, heaved a sigh, and then his breathing evened back out.

“Okay. He’s still asleep. We can continue.”

“Wait a minute, are you there with him now? Your, uh, _witness?"_

Castiel inwardly cursed himself. He wasn’t being vague enough, and she was putting things together. “I am with the witness, yes.”

Meg was suddenly laughing again. “Babysitting the Boy with the Demon Blood.”

Castiel chose not to dwell on what she had figured out, choosing instead to direct the conversation away from relevant information. “Dean said something about Sam being a baby, as well. He is clearly a young adult. I don’t understand the confusion over this.”

“Hey, if I bring a pizza, do I get to spank you?”

“Do you—?” Castiel blinked. “What?”

“I’ll be the pizzaman, and you can be the babysitter.” Meg laughed again. “You didn’t watch the video, did you?”

“I’ve been a bit busy,” Castiel snapped.

“Yeah, busy being banished by a demon baby.”

Castiel felt his eye twitch, likely his vessel responding to his anger.

“Look, if you watch the video I gave you, I’ll go kill this guy you don’t like.”

Castiel heaved a sigh. “I will watch the video.” He paused. “Thank you for doing this. For an abomination, you are actually quite tolerable.”

“Wow. You’ve got me swooning, Clarence.”

“If you feel faint, I would check your surroundings.” Despite himself, he couldn’t keep out the faint tone of concern. “I am too far away to be causing your dizziness.”

Meg laughed again. It sounded nice. He didn’t really know why, but he supposed it had something to do with personal connections. He had noticed he recognized Dean and Bobby by their laughs. He also found that, especially while in his vessel, the laughter of small children was inexplicably more contagious than the laughter of adults. It was probably another one of those human things. He didn’t know. He would have to ask Dean sometime.

“Meg.” Castiel paused briefly, contemplating his words as they slowly tumbled out of his mouth. “Tell me… what was Sam like… as a child?”

“I already told you everything I remember about Baby Sam.”

“Yes, but what was he like?” Castiel glanced at the sleeping boy. “You’re very skilled in the manipulation of humans. You blend in well with them, and I believe it’s because you pay attention to the social cues I neither see nor understand.”

Meg let out a long, heavy sigh. “You’re too observant for your own good.” She paused and hummed. “He was smart. Kept to himself. He was tiny until he hit sixteen, and then he shot up, but he was still scrawny. Still, he never lost a fight; always found a way to come out on top.” She chuckled. “I always like his moxie.”

“You told him your real name.” It wasn’t a question, but Castiel’s voice made it clear he was expending an explanation of some kind.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Castiel paused, pressing her when she offered no further response. “Were you close?”

“Sure, closer than intestines and a hernia,” she drawled.

Castiel remained quiet, silently demanding an answer.

Meg sighed. “We weren’t close, but he was the least annoying. I taught him a few things, and Sarnathul and I were the only ones he could get smart with.” She laughed then. “I always liked that, too. He’s got an attitude, believe you me.”

Castiel frowned. “I… find that difficult to picture.”

“Just wait until you don’t put the literal fear of God into him anymore.” She snorted. “Once he gets comfortable, all he’ll do is sass you and run his mouth.” She paused, and there was an odd, muted, reluctant fondness in her voice when she continued. “It was a nice time.”

Castiel didn’t say anything right away, but he was no longer pressing for information. He could tell he was getting close to personal territory, and he wasn’t about to cause a complete shut down by prodding at subjects that didn’t matter. “He hasn’t had any withdrawal symptoms. Do you know why?”

“Eh. He probably used it all up when he took out Alistair.” Something clattered in the background. “He’s been off Hell’s radar for three years. Just ask him when he wakes up.”

Castiel sighed softly and glanced back at Sam, watching the blankets gently rise and fall with his breathing. “I may do that.” He paused. “But I will watch the pizzaman first.”

Meg laughed out loud, and there was another clatter. “Good. Next time you see me, I expect you to understand my references.”

“Next time you see me, it had better be to tell me Gordon Walker is a dead man.”

Meg chuckled. “Oh, Clarence. You asked me to kill him. He’s already a dead man.”

Castiel smirked slightly. Her confidence reminded him of his single-mindedness when it came to missions. Sure, the Righteous Man got him to rebel against Heaven, but that didn’t mean Castiel didn’t see every job through to a thorough and merciless end. He was simply choosing a different kind of ending; one he got to make himself.

“I’ll hold you to that, Meg.”

“I’m shaking in my boots, Clarence.”

Click.

Castiel pulled the phone away from his ear and smiled at the screen for a moment, confusion twisting his features a second later. Odd that he would smile at a phone. They were convenient—especially with the sigils he had placed on Bobby and Dean—but certainly nothing to smile over.

_I’ve been in this vessel too long._

Castiel looked back at Sam. He was sound asleep, and Castiel briefly considered leaving to get Dean’s laptop so he could watch the pizzaman video. He ultimately decided against it. Even if he only left for a few minutes, he didn’t like the thought of Sam waking up alone, especially after Castiel assured him he would be guarded.

So, Castiel kept his hand on Sam’s arm and returned to staring at the wall, letting the minutes turn into hours, watching the shadows on the wall as the sun began rise through the window behind him.

“You aren’t dirty, Sam.”

Castiel didn’t know why he spoke. Sam was still asleep, and the silence permeating the house said the same was true of Bobby and Dean.

“You aren’t broken, and you aren’t wrong.” No more than the average human, anyway. But wasn’t that the point? “No one is beyond forgiving, beyond saving, beyond love. My Father never gave humans the ability to determine their own worth. He knew you would come to all the wrong conclusions.” Castiel shook his head slightly, squeezing Sam’s arm. “You aren’t dirty, Sam.”

Sam continued to breathe evenly, curled up under the sheets, sleeping peacefully. He was completely unaware of the words Castiel was saying, and yet Castiel couldn’t keep himself from saying them. They needed to be said, if only for Castiel’s sanity.

 _How did we forget that this is our job? That this is what we’re meant to do?_ Castiel knew he didn’t understand emotions and humans as well as he should have, but his instinctual response to Sam’s pain was proof that he was doing what angels had been meant to do all along. Taking care of humans, easing their pain, offering them shelter and love and _truth_ when no one else would…

It was wired into Castiel’s very being.

It was so much a part of him that he wasn’t entirely sure how or when he walked around the bed and laid down behind Sam, but suddenly he was there, tucking Sam into the curve of his body.

“You aren’t dirty, Sam. You’re one of my Father’s creations, and He doesn’t make garbage. He doesn’t make mistakes, and He doesn’t make ‘unholy abominations.’ He makes things that are good and precious and wonderful. Understand?”

Sam curled up a little tighter, face twisting up for a moment before he relaxed again.

Castiel pulled Sam a little closer, tucking the boy’s head under his chin. He didn’t care if he was invading personal space. He held Dean just as close when dragging him from Hell and piecing him back together. Sam deserved the same.

 “You’re going to be alright, Sam.” Castiel heaved a sigh, staring at the window without actually seeing what was beyond the glass, his mind a thousand lightyears away. “You aren’t dirty, Sam. You never have been.”

Sam whimpered in his sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ ENDINGS NOTES AFTER FINISHING THE CHAPTER.

“Sam?”

Sam lifted his head and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He looked at the fresh green t-shirt, the faded blue flannel, his clean-shaven face, and his tired, bloodshot eyes. Surprisingly, he felt better than he looked, though not by much.

“Sam, is everything alright in there?”

Sam took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door, forcing a quick smile. “Everything’s fine, Castiel. Thanks for asking.”

Castiel tilted his head to the side, frowning slightly. “That sounds like a lie, but alright.”

“I’m just tired.” Sam forced another smile and gestured to the bedroom door. “Uh, let’s go. Don’t want to keep them waiting.” Not that Dean and Bobby would have any reason to wait for Sam to eat their breakfast. Why did he always say the stupidest things out loud?

Castiel didn’t seem to notice, though. He simply disappeared in a rush of air and a flutter of wings, leaving Sam to walk downstairs the old-fashioned way.

 _Just relax. If Dean hated me, he would have locked me up or kicked me out or killed me or… something. Castiel says he doesn’t, so he doesn’t._ Sam let himself out of the room and started down the short hall to the stairs. _Bobby wouldn’t let me stay just because of Dean… probably… so he’s probably fine with me, too. I mean, not fine, but… he probably doesn’t hate me. Not a lot, at least. Probably._ He went down the stairs, moving slower than he needed to, heart burning and throbbing in his chest. _Castiel isn’t disgusted by me, and Castiel would be most likely to, so… it’s all okay. It’s all gonna be—_

“Morning, Sammy!” Dean smiled from where he sat at the kitchen table, one hand on a beer and one spooning cereal into his mouth. “You want me to make you something?”

Sam hovered in the doorway for a moment, staring at Dean for several seconds before his gaze flickered to Bobby, who sat across from Dean, and then to Castiel, who was leaning against the counter nearby.

Sam looked at Dean again and swallowed hard, gesturing vaguely to the table. “I’ll just have whatever you’re having. Um, thank you. That’s… thank you.”

Dean nodded and gave the chair diagonal of himself a kick. “Come sit.” He shoved more food into his mouth. “We ‘odda dal’.”

Bobby looked at Sam with a snort, rolling his eyes. “We gotta talk,” he translated.

Sam nodded stiffly and, after a moment of hesitation, made his way over to the table. He sat down, and it briefly occurred to him that he was the tallest person in the room. He hunched his shoulders to counteract that fact, keeping his eyes on the tabletop.

“What, um…” Sam cleared his throat and tried again. “What do you wanna talk about?”

_Please don’t make me leave. Please don’t say you hate me. Please, please, please…_

“Well,” Dean started, having swallowed enough that he could articulate. “We know _some_ stuff about your time at Azazel’s Camp for Special Snowflakes—”

Castiel laughed, shaking his head with a delighted sigh. “I enjoy understanding references.”

Dean rolled his eyes and looked at Sam like, ‘What a dork, amiright?’

Sam blinked and swallowed, trying not to think about their knowledge of his past and what it meant. He tried to feed on the lightheartedness Dean was offering, and while he couldn’t get past his fear, it did help. Marginally.

Dean was apparently unaware of Sam’s struggle, because he kept talking, as easy-going as ever. “You obviously got some kinda training for your demon mojo, but we don’t really know anything else. So, start from the beginning.”

Sam blinked a few times. “Uh, the—the beginning, beginning?”

Dean shoved more food into his mouth and nodded. “S’far ba’ as ‘ou ‘an ‘ememuh.”

“As… far back as I can remember.” Sam looked to Bobby, waiting for the older man to confirm his translation before continuing. “Um, I… the training or the—the people who were there, or…?”

“Just tell us about you, kid.” Bobby took a swig of coffee and let out a satisfied sigh. “Just start talking about whatever feels right. If we got questions, we’ll ask.”

Dean nodded in agreement, pouring himself another bowl of cereal. Dean really liked to eat, Sam had found, and the less meat there was in a meal, the more Dean needed to eat to feel full.

“I don’t… I don’t really know how it all started… where I came from or anything like that.” Sam folded his hands in his lap and tugged on his sleeves. “Azazel killed my parents, and I didn’t have any other relatives. Or, uh, if I did, Azazel never told me about them, and I don’t know any names or anything. Azazel gave me a picture of my parents for my tenth birthday, but…” he struggled with himself, “…it’s gone now.” Ripped and burned, right in front of him, while he screamed and cried and begged, but they didn’t need to know that.

Bobby swore under his breath, and the news seemed to upset Dean, too. Sam almost looked over his shoulder to see if Castiel had a similar reaction, but he decided it was safest to focus on the task at hand.

“I, um, I grew up on demon blood. I don’t… I don’t think other demons do that. It was just me and the other… special… kids.” Sam cleared his throat, watching as Dean got to his feet and retrieved a bowl from a nearby cabinet. “I didn’t realize anything was… not okay with the blood drinking… until, um, a few years ago. Azazel went to the Hell Gate…” he continued to follow Dean with his eyes, tracking him over to the fridge, “…and I guess you killed him there, so he never came back, and after a few days…”

Silence settled over the room as Sam struggled with his words, vivid memories flashing across his field of vision. Castiel was kind enough to gently prod him along, his tone uncharacteristically soft.

“You went into withdrawals. If you were raised on the blood, I imagine they were severe.” He folded his arms over his chest, his expression thoughtful. “Do you know why you didn’t have withdrawal symptoms this time?”

Sam cleared his throat, somewhat distracted by Dean returning to the table and preparing a second bowl of cereal next to his own. “Um, I… I have a theory. I think I sort of… used it all, for lack of a better term.” He wet his lips. “Azazel always told me killing Lilith would completely wipe me out. He said to make sure I had backup because I wouldn’t be able to use my powers after such a drain. Last night, after I killed Alistair, I tried to exorcise some of the demons outside. But, uh, it didn’t work, right?”

“Eat,” Dean interrupted, moving a bowl of cereal with milk closer to Sam.

It took a split second for Sam to redirect his attention back to the table and process that the food was, in fact, meant for him; as soon as he realized that, he grabbed the spoon and started shoveling, making quick work of a swallow before murmuring a quiet, “Thank you.”

Castiel cleared his throat, bringing the room back to their more pressing conversation. “Sam, I believe your theory is correct. When I first returned, I arrived outside to assess the threat, and when I went back outside after assisting in the library, the only bodies I found were ones that had been there before. It seems you were unable to kill or exorcise any demons after killing Alistair.”

Sam took another bite and chewed quickly, surprised to find he was actually a bit excited to share his ideas on the biological components of demon blood. No one had ever listened to him ramble before.

“So, something about using your mojo makes it go away faster?” Dean questioned, returning to his own cereal with vigor. “How’s that work?”

Sam lifted his bowl to his mouth and drank some of the milk, licking his lips as he lowered the dish to the table. “I think, like gasoline, demon blood gets burned up with use. It might have something to do with my, uh, make and model, if you will, but… a car will also burn more gas based on how hard you push it.”

Bobby nodded his head slightly. “So, fighting your average demon is like cruisin’ along at forty miles an hour, but fightin’ something like Alistair is doing a hundred on the highway.”

Sam nodded as he swallowed another mouthful of cereal. “Right. For Lilith, Azazel said I would need to—to drink a whole demon dry.” He cleared his throat, feeling his stomach turn a little at the blatant reminder of his disturbing predisposition. “I, um, w-well, Alistair wasn’t nearly as powerful as Lilith, but I also didn’t have very much blood…” he cleared his throat again, trying to rush away from the topic of just how much blood he could drink and use, “…and, uh, I killed more than a dozen other demons before I even got to Alistair. Certain amounts give me the power to do certain things… although I still don’t really know how burning it keeps my body from going through withdrawals. Because, I mean, I wind up with an empty tank either way, but… something about using it up is different. It always has been. I never really got a chance to study it, but… I’m sure I could, if I had time. I don’t have my research notes anymore, but I have most of that committed to memory, anyway.”

Dean groaned loudly and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face with his hands. “You didn’t tell me you were a _nerd_.”

“Ignore him, Sam.” Castiel gave Dean a dirty look. “I, for one, find your intellectual approach to be very _refreshing_.”

Dean flipped them both off and took a swig of beer. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Keep going, Sammy.”

_He’s called me Sammy twice now. He still calls me Sammy, even though I…_

Sam gave a few nods, grabbing the box of cereal and topping off his bowl. Briefly, it occurred to him that he didn’t even know what kind of cereal he was eating, but he ultimately found he didn’t care. He was just hungry.

“Um… I got trained at the camp, just like you said.” Sam licked his lips, took another bite, and continued. “Not just my powers, but archery, swordsmanship, marksmanship, hand-to-hand combat… anything I could ever need to know about fighting, I guess. Monsters and their weaknesses, Heaven and angels, Hell and demons… I don’t really know why.” He shrugged, sneaking another bite between phrases. “You would think once Lucifer… took over… he would know everything he needed to know. I wouldn’t be in control of myself anymore, so… why would I need to know anything about…” He trailed off, staring into his bowl with tired, vacant eyes. “I dunno.”

“That’s okay.” Dean shrugged his shoulders. “It is what it is, man. We’re not gonna figure everything out today, and we know that. We’re just gathering information, so whatever pops into your head is fine. Doesn’t have to make sense.”

Sam took a quick breath and nodded, pouring himself a little more cereal. “Um, after Azazel left… and I was… not so great… I remember running… my head wouldn’t stop pounding, and I didn’t really know where I was… I couldn’t tell what was real… what was a hallucination… I think I found a town… or city of some kind… I was in jail at one point, um… I guess they thought I was homeless or high or something? I mean, I guess I kinda was.” Sam chewed his lip, shook his head, and idly stirred his breakfast. “I got out, but I don’t really remember how. I remember… I think I hurt someone.” He flinched. “K-killed them, probably.” He screwed his eyes shut and kept his head down. “Ran some more.”

Dean nudged Sam under the table with his foot. “Hey, it’s okay. You sound like you were pretty out of it.”

Sam lifted his head slightly, but he couldn’t meet Dean’s eyes. “I’ve killed a lot of people when I wasn’t at all out of it, Dean. Azazel would bring humans to the camp, and I killed them as part of my training. I thought about killing Gordon last night, and… I wouldn’t have felt anything.” He shrank in on himself, heart pounding against his ribcage. “I… I’m not—”

“Sam.” Castiel’s voice was somewhat scolding. “I have killed more innocents than you, and I stay my blade more than most angels. You don’t view us as evil, do you?”

Sam shook his head immediately. “No, of course not! I—”

“It is in the past.” Castiel gave him a stern look. “Leave it there.”

Bobby tapped the table. “And eat before your cereal gets soggy.”

Sam shoved a spoonful into his mouth and kept his head down. He was hardly going to argue with an angel, especially not one who wanted to let his transgressions go unpunished. Dean hadn’t said anything, and if Bobby wanted him to keep eating, he couldn’t have been too disgusted. So… maybe it was alright.

“Um… after I ran again…” Sam grabbed another mouthful, “…I must have gotten tangled up with some monsters or hunters or… I don’t know. Sometimes I get little bits and pieces back… but it was like… being blackout drunk over a three-day weekend. I—I woke up with a hunter who was a priest, and that’s the first clear memory I have after the withdrawals started.”

Dean leaned forward slightly, interest piqued. “Was his name Jim? Father Jim Murphy?”

Sam lifted his head and offered a faint nod. “Do you know him?” He took another bite.

“He was friends with my dad, and he watched me sometimes when I was a kid,” Dean explained, tipping his bottle back before continuing. “Was he good to you?”

Sam nodded immediately. “Everyone was, at first. I don’t really know how I… _became_ property, I just did. There wasn’t really a process… but the first six owners I had were fine. They just needed some help with hunting… I have a bit of a sixth sense, and there’s the visions, of course. It was only after… after I got sold to Gordon, that… things… changed.”

Dean pressed his lips together, seeming angry, though not with Sam. “Yeah, sorry about that.” He didn’t look at Sam when he said it, suddenly fascinated with his shoelaces. “I never knew he had a psychic—or any monster, uh, person… from any auction. I would have taken a closer look.”

Sam’s lips twitched into the lightest of smiles. “I would have liked that.” He briefly imagined how his life might have been different if Dean had come into it sooner, but he quickly cast that aside.

Dean took a bite of cereal and nodded toward Sam. “‘Eep ‘oin’.”

Bobby sighed. “You know, you could _swallow_ before you talk, like Sam does.”

Dean gave Bobby a disparaging look, but he swallowed before he spoke again. “Keep going, Sam. You were talking about Gordon.”

Sam tried to hide the smile on his lips, and while he didn’t think he did a very good job, no one seemed offended. “Right, Gordon. Um, I don’t know if… if it was something I did, or…” His lips twisted in confusion, and then he shook his head. “He was fine for seventy-two days, and then one day… everything was just different.”

Dean frowned. “Just like that? Overnight?”

Sam nodded a few times. He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice failed him, and he wound up hiding the attempt in a mouthful of cereal. He chewed slowly, contemplating the situation he was in and what it meant. He felt that if anybody deserved to know everything that went through his head, it was Dean. Dean, who was nice when nobody else was. Dean, who was more likely to show mercy and kindness than anyone else Sam had ever known.

And Sam found, as he swallowed and opened his mouth to speak, that he was ready to accept whatever reaction Dean had. If Dean thought Sam was emotional and stupid, that was fine. If Dean thought Sam deserved some kind of correction, Sam would submit. If Dean though Sam needed tenderness and love, well… that would be Sam’s favorite outcome, but if he didn’t get it, he would be fine.

“I thought… I thought maybe those other hunters… just hadn’t hit their limit. Like… maybe I was doing something wrong, and some people could tolerate it longer than others… and I just stayed with Gordon too long, and he got fed up. But… he sold me, and the next five hunters I went through were almost as bad.” He stopped to take another bite, scraping the bottom of the bowl with a halfhearted shrug. “I still don’t know what happened.”

“What happened was Gordon was crazy as balls.” Bobby’s voice was as gruff as usual, but it made Sam feel more touched than afraid. “You’re a good kid. You didn’t do nothin’ wrong, got it?”

Sam looked at Bobby for a moment, and then he nodded. “Yes, sir. Bobby. Yes, Bobby.”

Bobby let out a sigh and shook his head, rolling his eyes. “Idjit.”

Sam let a quick smile pull at his mouth, but he immediately sobered, realizing he had to approach one of the few lies he had told. He reminded himself that whatever Dean decided to do was okay and took a deep breath, pressing on.

“Um…” Sam pulled on his sleeves, looking down at his lap. “Gordon was right when he said… you can trigger visions. I… I lied about that.” He hung his head, ashamed. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean waved it off, but he didn’t explicitly offer forgiveness. “You don’t want to deal with visions any more than you have to. I get it.”

Sam shook his head earnestly. “N-no, it’s not that… I mean, I don’t _like_ visions, but they can be useful… I just…” He squirmed in his chair, reminding himself that telling the truth was good, and being good was almost always rewarded. “Um, there’s an electrical frequency. Azazel and Gordon… they both hooked me up to… things… and, well, it doesn’t always work, but—”

“They electrocuted you?” Dean sounded upset—horrified, even—and his beer hit the table with a thud. “For crying out loud. Did you ever catch a break?”

Sam braved a glance at Dean’s eyes. “It was only them. I never told anyone else it was possible, but… if you wanted to, Dean, I would let you. I’d let you do anything.” And he would. And maybe that should have scared him, but it didn’t.

“Hey.” Dean rapped his knuckles on the table and leaned across, grabbing Sam’s chin and forcing him to make eye contact. “Never. Okay? Never, Sammy.”

Sam inhaled sharply and blinked away the notion of tears, glancing down at Dean’s gentle hand with a grateful nod. “Thank you.”

Dean dropped his hand and leaned back in his chair. “Is there anything else you remember about being transferred around? Is there anybody who might come after you? Someone who wanted to buy you but couldn’t? Crazies with a grudge?”

Sam thought about that for a few moments, but he wound up shaking his head in the end. “I… I don’t think so, no. Kubrick was a hunter who… wasn’t all that nice.” Crazy. “He was kinda fixated on my premonitions, but I don’t think he was fixated enough to steal me from someone else.”

Bobby snorted. “Tch. I’ve worked a few jobs with Kubrick. He’s a real piece.”

Sam looked at Bobby for a moment, and he knew it was selfish and manipulative, because he was just fishing for affirmation, pining after emotional security like a whiny teenager, but…

“So, it wasn’t my fault?” Sam asked softly.

Bobby shook his head. “Nah. He was a violent, religious nut who used God to justify whatever he did, struttin’ around with an ego the size of Texas.”

Castiel’s eyes widened slightly. “That… is a very large ego.”

Sam fought the urge to smile.

Dean snorted. “No joke.” He drank some of his beer and shook his head. “You’re a good kid, Sammy. It wasn’t your fault. Not Gordon, not Kubrick, not Azazel or Alistair or anybody.” He smiled and nudged Sam under the table again. “Okay?”

Sam nodded obediently, and he felt a flutter of warmth in his chest. “Okay.” _He doesn’t hate me. None of them do. They don’t think I’m evil._ “Um… I don’t know what else to talk about. Do you… have questions? I can answer questions.”

Castiel shifted his weight, head tilting as he contemplated his words. “Do you remember spending time with Meg? Uh, Irzameg, that is.”

Sam pursed his lips and thought for a moment, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I remember. Why?”

Dean snorted. “Because Cas has got it bad for her.”

Sam’s eyes widened slightly, and he looked at Dean. “No way.” He didn’t even know angels and demons could bear to be in the same room, let alone… “Seriously?”

Dean laughed and nodded, leaving Sam to look back at the bewildered Castiel.

“I don’t have anything bad for her. I don’t have anything for her at all.” Castiel blinked a few times, still confused. “I simply wanted Sam to know that, whenever he is comfortable, he can interact with us as casually as he did with her.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Woah, Cas. It’s great that you’re finally getting laid, but don’t go scheduling orgies without my permission.” He paused, an odd frown twisting his lips, eyes darkening as if he had remembered something. “Don’t go scheduling orgies at all.”

Sam quickly intervened, not wanting the awkward conversation to go on any longer than it had to. “Uh, I think he’s talking about my… attitude. I was never… very respectful with Irzameg or Sarnathul. But—but only because they were okay with it. I would never talk to—to you or Bobby or Castiel that way—”

“Please do,” Dean deadpanned.

“You better,” Bobby muttered.

“I just said such interaction would be welcome,” Castiel chided.

Sam wet his lips, looking between the three men and offering a small nod. “Okay.”

“Take your time.” Dean finished his beer and stood up, clearing away his bowl and bottle. “I get it. You’re not used to being snarky, and it might take a while to feel comfortable, but… seriously. I think we’ll all feel better in the end.”

“If that’s what you want,” Sam replied quickly, offering a small smile. It might be nice to try sassing Dean, however nerve-wracking the idea may have been.

“It’s what I want.” Dean sat back down in his chair and leaned back, watching Sam carefully. “You, uh… I don’t know how to say this in a non-chick-flick-moment way, but… your self-esteem sucks, Sam. You’re way too hard on yourself, and you…” He trailed off briefly, visibly struggling with himself. “You see yourself as dirty, and that’s… not cool.”

Sam blinked. He opened his mouth to speak, stopped, and blinked again.

“Sam.” Castiel spoke softly, moving a little farther up the bar so he could be seen without Sam having to turn his head. “We’re all a little concerned by your… thought processes. That’s why we’re encouraging you to be disrespectful. Not because we don’t appreciate the respect, and not because it doesn’t have its place, but… we’d like to see you become more comfortable in who you are.”

Dean rubbed his face. “You had to make it gay, didn’t you? I was so close to—”

“My self-esteem?” Sam echoed dumbly, blinking again. “You’re concerned?”

It was Bobby’s turn to speak, the gruff voice weighed down with a heavy sadness Sam hadn’t heard before in the man’s voice. “Kid, the only thing about you that’s disturbing or wrong is how much you hate yourself, and we can all see it.” He shook his head. “It’s gotta stop.”

Dean held up his hands. “And that takes time. We know that. But, Sammy…” He let out a sigh and shook his head. “I mean, I don’t think any of us are poster boys for healthy self-image, but we don’t hate ourselves, man.”

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Castiel beat him to the punch.

“Do not say that you are different from us, because you are not.” Castiel gave him a hard look, once again taking on a scolding tone of voice. “You have made mistakes, Sam, as have we. You have tried to make them right, and that is all anyone can ask of you. You aren’t bad or wrong or evil.”

“You definitely aren’t dirty,” Dean added. “Or any of the synonyms for ‘dirty’ I’ve heard you use.”

“Like we said, you’re a good kid.” Bobby shook his head. “Might take you a while to get that, but you will.”

Sam looked between them for a moment, chest tight and eyes burning. He finally wound up staring at Dean, shaking his head, lost at sea. “I don’t understand. Why?”

“You deserve to feel at least _okay_ about yourself, Sam.” Dean shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t need another reason.”

“But I… I don’t even know you. We aren’t related, we aren’t partners or friends, we…” Sam blinked a few times, face screwed up with confusion. “Is this because I got rid of Alistair?”

Dean sighed and leaned forward, folding his arms on the table and putting his weight on them. “Sammy, this is because you deserve it. You don’t have to be or do or say anything to deserve a family who wants you to like yourself. You’re alive and you’re breathing, so you deserve it; period, end of story.”

Sam looked down at the tabletop, swallowing hard. _I don’t understand. I don’t…_

“We’ve got your back, kid.” It was Bobby, but Sam couldn’t get himself to look over. “Family don’t end with blood, and it sure don’t end with what somebody can do for you.”

“Technically, none of my siblings and I are biologically related.” Castiel shrugged his shoulders. “We don’t have DNA.”

Dean snorted, his hand sliding across the table to nudge Sam’s arm. “Finish breakfast, and then I’m gonna make you and Cas watch my favorite childhood movie. Because neither of you understand my references, and that’s upsetting to me.” He flashed a quick smile. “Remember what I told you about the times when life doesn’t suck. Don’t overthink it, Sammy.”

Castiel tilted his head to the side. “You are referring to the movie about the dragon, yes?”

“Yeah. Pete’s Dragon. Or, as I like to call it, The Only Childhood Movie That Matters. Scooby-Doo movies are in a class of their own.”

Sam’s lips twisted slightly. “Scooby-Doo…? I think I watched that a couple times after I got out of the camp. Father Murphy had some videos.”

Dean grinned to himself. “Yeah, those were mine. Kinda weird he still had them by the time you came along.” He fell silent for a moment, thoughtful, but he quickly bounced back into the carefree conversation. “Anyway, the one and only downside to Scooby-Doo is the lack of musical numbers. Everyone needs a musical in their life. They just do.”

Sam managed a small smile and nodded his head. “I… I would like that.”

Sam wondered if Dean knew how much Sam needed the distraction of a movie. He clearly knew Sam would overthink things, and he was trying to prevent it, but did he realize how thoroughly—and _casually_ —the three of them had just shattered Sam’s worldview?

Maybe. Maybe not. But Sam didn’t want to tell him. Sam didn’t want to think about how absurd it all sounded, didn’t want to talk himself into asking for clarification. He was afraid of altering the dream-like universe he had found himself in. He was afraid if he drew too much attention to how utterly ridiculous it was to think that someone like him deserved a family and love and kindness simply _because…_ then they would realize their mistake and correct it.

And Sam should have known better, and Sam should have realized that Dean just didn’t _know_ how dirty Sam was, and Sam shouldn’t have been so selfish, but he didn’t _want_ them to change their minds. He wanted to live in a magical universe where people cared about him just because he was alive and breathing. He wanted to wake up every day and feel like he was still dreaming.

So, against his better judgement, he went with it. He ate his breakfast, he smiled when they joked with each other, he agreed to try and think more positively about himself, and he curled up on the couch between Castiel and Dean to watch a children’s movie.

If it was fake—no, not it, it was, it _was_ —it would come out eventually. Until then, Sam was going to enjoy himself.

_“I’ll be your candle on the wateeer… my love for you will always buuurn… I know you’re lost… and drifting… but the clouds are lifting… don’t give up, you have you have somewhere to tuuurn…”_

It must have been the third time through that Sam finally fell asleep, one of his favorite songs overlapping with Dean’s half-hearted jibes.

“Tch. Didn’t he get enough sleep last night?”

“He is exhausted, Dean, and his body is still recovering.”

“I can’t believe he wanted to watch it again.”

“I can’t believe you are still pretending not to thoroughly enjoy this.”

“Shut up, Cas.”

_“… a cold and friendless tide has found you… don’t let the stormy darkness pull you down… I’ll paint a ray of hope aroouund you… circling in the air, lighted by a praaayer… I’ll be your candle on the wateeer… this flame in side of me will grow… keep holding on, you’ll make it… here’s my hand, so take it… look for me, reaching out to shooow… as sure as rivers flooow… I’ll never let yoouu gooo… I’ll never let yoouu goo… I’ll never let yoouu goo…”_

* * *

Sam leaned back and let out a sigh, staring up at the night sky with a heavy weight on his chest. He liked the feel of the shingles beneath him, liked the slant of the roof, liked the cool night air blowing across his skin. It made his pounding heart and burning eyes a little more bearable, faint echoes and snapshots of the past closing in on every side.

 _I feel safe here. I feel happy and warm and cared about, so why? Why can’t I get rid of these nightmares?_ Sam rolled onto his side and let out a sigh, idly tracing patterns on a nearby shingle. _I don’t understand why I’m not better. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do._

Sam sighed softly, moving his finger to another shingle with the intent to doodle some more. He stopped when he heard the screen door banging shut somewhere below, his curiosity pulling him closer to the edge until he saw Dean storming toward the Impala.

Sam was calling out before he could stop himself. “Dean, is everything okay?”

Dean startled and looked around. He apparently didn’t see Sam, because he started to turn in a slow circle, fists rising slightly as if getting ready for a fight.

“Dean!” Sam waved his hand over his head until he got Dean’s attention, and then he started crawling closer to the edge. “Hold on, I’ll be right down.” He grabbed onto the edge and, after taking a moment to aim, swung down with as little strain on the gutters as he could manage. He fell to the dirt, knees bending on impact to ease his landing.

“Sam?” Dean sounded worried, and he was rushing around a stack of two junked cars a second later. “What the heck was that? You just jumped off a roof!”

Sam looked back up, lips twisting in confusion. “It’s not that high.” He looked back at Dean then, frown deepening. “Are you okay? Why are you leaving in the middle of the night? Is it a hunt? Do you need help? Can I—”

“No, it’s nothing. It’s nothing.” Dean rubbed his face, and Sam thought he caught a glimpse of something glistening in the moonlight. “Uh, why are you up on a roof in the middle of the night?”

Sam shuffled in place, scuffing the dirt under his feet. He didn’t want to tell Dean about the nightmares; didn’t want Dean to think he was ungrateful. “Couldn’t sleep,” he finally said with a shrug. “Besides, I like to watch the stars.”

Dean looked at him for a moment, and then he let out a sigh, a defeated expression crossing his features. “Yeah, I couldn’t sleep, either.” He looked at Sam for another moment, and then he turned to leave, waving Sam along. “Come on.”

Sam pursed his lips, curious and confused, and he obediently followed along. He got in the Impala on the passenger side and watched in silence as Dean started the engine.

Dean turned off the radio, which was unusual for him, and then he started to drive. He didn’t say a word; just rolled down the windows and hit the road, picking up speed and carrying them further away from Bobby’s.

Sam recalled midnight trips with past owners. He had always hated the not knowing. Was Sam going to be a designated driver after his owner left some seedy establishment in the middle of nowhere? Was it a hunt, and Sam was needed for bait? Was someone coming after them? Was Sam supposed to do something? It was always an ordeal wrought with fear.

But not with Dean.

Sam didn’t feel any discomfort at all. He didn’t know where Dean was going, what Dean was planning, or why Dean had brought him along, but he didn’t care. Whatever it was, Sam would be fine with it. Even if it was something bad, he would have been fine with it. Sam knew it wasn’t, of course. He could feel the safety rolling off Dean. Dean was a protector, and Sam wasn’t afraid.

Dean slowed down and pulled the car into an open field, getting a fair distance between them and the road before putting the Impala in park and shutting off the engine. “Hop out.”

Confused, Sam did as he was told, watching as Dean did the same.

Dean crawled onto the hood of the Impala and scooted backwards until he was up against the windshield. He leaned back, folding his arms behind his head, and glanced at Sam. “Come on. Don’t scratch the paint.”

Sam blinked, surprised, and then he once again did as Dean told him. He crawled onto the hood of the car and lay down next Dean, looking up at the stars with a small smile.

“I have nightmares about Hell.”

Sam jerked his gaze over to Dean, startled, but he didn’t say a word. Concern creased his brow, and he found himself moving a little closer. _Dean has nightmares, too?_

“I was down there for, uh… for forty years. It was four months up here, but… well, I guess you know how that works.” Dean cleared his throat, eyes glued to the sky. “They, uh, they sliced and carved and tore at me… until there was nothing left, and then suddenly… I would be whole again. Like… sick, twisted magic… and Alistair… at the end of every… every _single_ day… he would come over and make me an offer.”

Sam nodded silently, very familiar with the deal, but it wasn’t until Dean shuddered that Sam realized he was supposed to speak. Dean needed to hear someone else talk about it, he needed to know the monsters clawing at the inside of his brain weren’t just his.

“He offered to take you off the rack if you started torturing souls yourself.” Sam wet his lips and looked up at the skies again, feeling Dean probably didn’t want to be watched. “He always got off on the mental torture more than the physical torture. He… liked to make you want things you should hate… hate things you should love…”

“I did.” Dean cleared his throat again, trying to cover up the fact that it had cracked. “I didn’t just agree, Sammy, I…” He shook his head, eyes closing and sending a tear down his cheek. “I held out for thirty years… I told him to stick it where the sun don’t shine, every single day, and then one day… I didn’t. I picked up that knife… and the next thing I knew… I had lost count of how many souls I had ripped apart…”

Sam scratched at his sweatpants, chewing on the inside of his lip. “You’re not evil, Dean.”

Dean snorted, his voice thick with self-loathing. “I didn’t just do it, Sam. I—I _liked_ it. God help me, I liked it. I _wanted_ to do it.”

Sam shook his head and scratched at his clothes some more. “No.”

Dean finally stopped staring at the sky, glaring at Sam in the dark. “What does that even mean? I’m pretty sure I know what I wanted, Sam.”

“You did want it.” Sam nodded slowly, turning to meet Dean’s gaze. “Hell works a lot like demon blood, Dean. If you’re surrounded by it, immersed in it, fed the same level of… of _darkness_ every day… you change into something else. You become capable of more evil, and it leaves holes in you that…” he wavered for a moment, knowing he spoke for both Dean and himself, “…that never go away. They don’t ever heal.”

Dean swallowed hard, glanced down, and then looked back at Sam.

“I believe you when you say you wanted it, but I…” Sam averted his eyes, ashamed. “I want demon blood, Dean. I’ve wanted it all day. I want it so bad it hurts.” He wet his lips and slowly lifted his gaze. “You said you aren’t disgusted by me.”

Dean shook his head. “I’m not, Sam.”

“Because you don’t believe that what I become when I’m high… or the part of me that craves the power and…” Sam shook his head. “You don’t believe that’s me. Not the real me, not the me that matters.” He wet his lips, doubt coiling through the pit of his stomach. “Right?”

“Right.” Dean looked at him for a long moment, nodded, and then turned his gaze skyward. “That’s right, Sammy.”

Sam looked up at the sky, too. “So, if that’s not me… then what you did in Hell… immersed in evil and darkness, day in and day out, for forty years… that’s not you.”

Dean pressed his lips together, another tear sliding down his cheek, but he remained silent.

“That’s not the you that bought me. That’s not the you who showed me kindness for the first time in…” Sam trailed for a moment, and he concluded that even though there had been bits of kindness throughout his life, no one had ever treated him as well as Dean, “…ever. And I… I know, if you’re like me, then you can feel it. Like… like you could scrub at your skin with steel wool until there’s nothing left but bone, and you would still feel dirty.”

Dean nodded and sniffed, turning his head for a moment to hide his face. He wiped at his eyes and looked up again. “I still say Heaven made a mistake. Cas is always talking to me about being the Righteous Man… I don’t think a Righteous Man would be this… this broken. Most days, I don’t feel like a man at all, let alone a righteous one.”

Sam tossed the words around in his head for a moment, and then he took a quick breath, whispering to his left. “Castiel says all the best souls are broken… because that’s what lets the light shine through.”

Dean snorted, but there was a smile in his voice when he spoke. “Yeah. He would say something like that.”

Sam rolled onto his side, pulling his knees up just enough to fit his entire body on the hood. “Can I… tell you something?”

“Sure, Sammy. You can tell me anything.” Dean looked at Sam, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes, and the green hues were still glazed with unshed tears.

Sam smiled weakly, hoping his words would do more good than harm. “Um, the… the first night at Bobby’s… Castiel woke me up in the middle of the night.” He wet his lips. “I was… well, I was terrified. I… well, you know.” He cleared his throat. “I felt… I know I didn’t… have a right to…”

Dean frowned slightly, nudging him with an elbow. “Hey, it’s alright. Just tell me.”

Sam bit down on his lip. “I… I pretended to be asleep so he would leave, and… I think I laid awake for at least an hour… trying to talk myself into… or out of… coming to get you.” He screwed his eyes shut. “I know it’s stupid. I’m—I’m twenty-six, I really shouldn’t—shouldn’t need to get someone in the middle of the night, but I just—” he covered his face, cheeks growing warmer, “—I feel safer when you’re around. I know you aren’t evil. I know what happened in Hell wasn’t the real you because… because I don’t feel safe—completely safe—around anyone. I don’t even feel safe alone, but… but with you, I do.” He inhaled sharply. “Is that stupid?”

Dean didn’t say anything for a moment, but if the arm he slid beneath Sam’s head was any indicator, he wasn’t upset by the revelation. “No, Sammy, it’s not stupid.” He swallowed thickly and cleared his throat, crossing his legs at the ankles. “If you ever need me, you can come get me. We’ll go for a drive, or watch a movie, or you can sleep with me, or… whatever. We’ll figure something out.”

Sam felt his heart jump in his chest, a grin parting his lips, but Dean cut him off before he could speak a single word of gratitude.

“You know any constellations?”

Sam shook his head, knowing Dean would feel the movement.

Dean cleared his throat again, sniffing to clear his sinuses, and then he pointed to the sky with his free hand. “You see those three bright ones in a row? It’s a little curved, but almost a straight line, and they’re bigger than the others.”

Sam tried to follow the sightline Dean provided, and after a few moments spent squinting and scanning, he nodded. “I see them.”

“That’s Orion’s Belt. Orion is this hunter constellation or whatever. So, if you want to find the rest of him…”

Dean continued to detail the constellations in the sky, helping Sam find the different patterns and telling him stories. Neither said another word about Hell, or about nightmares, or about demon blood, or right and wrong, or good and evil, or fears, or insecurities, or safety, or anything at all that wasn’t related to the simply enjoyment of a night sky. Hours passed, and as the sun came up over the horizon, they fell into a peaceful, easy silence, side by side on the hood of the Impala.

And Sam wasn’t just safe. He was happy.

For the first time in a very, very long time, Sam was happy.

And Sam could have been wrong, but when he saw the light shining in those emerald eyes, he thought that maybe… for the first time in a very, very long time… Dean was, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Demon Blood Logic: So, this was a difficult set of rules to work out, mainly because the actual rules from the show are ill-defined. We know Sam was drinking demon blood semi-regularly AND drained a whole demon before killing Lilith, yet he had no withdrawal symptoms afterward. On the opposite end of the spectrum, when fighting Famine, Sam drinks an undetermined amount of blood from two demons after months of sobriety and winds up in the throes of a horrendous withdrawal. This is exactly opposite of how substances generally work. For example, you can't die from a hangover, but you most certainly can die from alcohol withdrawals--rule of thumb: the longer a substance is in your system, the worse the withdrawals will be.
> 
> So, I tried to work with the system the show created, wherein certain levels of exertion simply... burn away the demon blood and its power. That said, even though Sam's consumption of demon blood in Chapter 7 falls into the second category (months of sobriety followed by one feeding), which led to withdrawals in the show, the enemy he was fighting was far more powerful. Remember, Sam doesn't actually kill Famine, he just kills the low level demons Famine is feeding on. Alistair is not a low-level demon, thus, killing Alistair burned more blood than killing the demons inside Famine. ALSO, Sam had less blood in Chapter 7 than he did in 'My Bloody Valentine.'
> 
> Yeah, I don't like it either, but I was trying to stick to canon. This is all, of course, completely theoretical. Hope the explanation wasn't too much of a disappointment.
> 
> Pete's Dragon: I couldn't help myself. It's one of my favorite movies, and it totally fits this scenario. If you get a chance to watch it--or even read a synopsis and watch some of the musical numbers from the show--definitely do it. Pete is Sam, The Gogans are Azazel and Alistair, Doc Terminus is Zachariah (even if we haven't seen much of him); Pete's Dragon, Elliot, is Castiel but also a little bit Dean, Nora is Dean; Nora's Dad, Lampy, also the Town Drunk, is Bobby.
> 
> I would recommend listening to 'The Happiest Home in These Hills,' 'Candle On The Water,' 'Bill of Sale,' and 'Brazzle Dazzle Day.' Just, y'know, if you want cute feels about Sam to make up for all this PAIN. Make sure you watch the classic, NOT the new one.


	13. Chapter 13

“Wow, this place is just as white-trashy as I remember.”

Dean startled, nearly dropping his coffee, and turned around to see Meg standing by the fridge. “You better have a real good reason for being here, because I have had it up—”

“Relax, Beavis.” Meg stayed where she was, holding something against her chest as she gave him a supercilious brow. “I just came to tell Pizza Boy I took care of Walker.”

Dean glanced at Castiel and then did a doubletake when the words sank in. “What?”

Castiel glanced at Meg briefly, irritation souring his features. “I requested a favor from her regarding Gordon Walker. I didn’t think she would announce it like this.” He added the second part with a note of bitterness.

Meg only snorted. “Yeah, well, sorry to burst your bubble.” She very clearly wasn’t sorry. “I killed him last week, less than twenty-four hours after you asked.” She unfolded her arms to reveal a large, manila envelope. “But I found something at Gordon’s place that got me curious, so I did some digging. Digging took a week. Digging got me this.”

Dean appraised her suspiciously, set on edge by her lack of animosity. Even her arrogance had been toned down, if only a little, and it tied a knot in his gut. “What kind of something?”

Meg held the envelope out, her expression unreadable. “It’s Sam’s. I thought you should know.”

Dean’s brow crinkled, and he reached out hesitantly, giving Castiel a quick look before he took the offered paper. “Uh… thanks?”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Meg folded her arms over her stomach, once again coming across as entirely too… _human…_ for Dean’s tastes.

“Meg?” Castiel questioned, giving voice to the confusion Dean felt.

Meg looked between the two of them and then spoke to Dean again. “I didn’t know. I don’t know if anybody did, except my dad. Maybe Alistair.” She shrugged. “I mean, being evil, I can’t say I would have done anything differently if I had, but… for the record, I didn’t know.”

Dean opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but she was gone. He looked at Castiel, who simply shrugged and stared at the envelope, waiting for Dean to open it. Dean looked back down at the packet, gave it another onceover, and then slipped his finger under the flap, tearing it open. He pulled out a couple papers, the one on top looking like a redacted birth certificate.

“Sam never mentioned a birth certificate,” Dean murmured, skimming the paper. “Not that it really came up in conversation. Looks like most of it is blacked out.”

Castiel frowned slightly. “What information is still legible?”

Dean shrugged. “Not much. It’s got his first name… middle and last are redacted… his parents first initials are there…” Dean frowned. _J and M? What are the chances?_ His eyes went a little lower, and his heart stopped.

“Dean?”

 

> _05/02/1983_
> 
> _3:47 AM_

“Cas… I swear…”

 

> _Lawrence Memorial Hospital_

“If she’s playing some kind of prank, she’s dead.”

But why would she do that? She left before she could watch the fallout, so she got no amusement. And why act apologetic if she was doing it for kicks? Not to mention, she would be getting on his bad side—more than she was already—and she might have been sadistic, but she was far from suicidal. Would she be stupid enough to cross Dean Winchester, to put a bloody target on her head for the rest of her life, just to—just to—to—

Dean moved the top sheet to the back and looked at the next page—an unredacted version of the same document—for all of two seconds before falling back against the counter and hitting the floor.

“Dean!”

Castiel was at his side instantly, but Dean couldn’t respond, couldn’t even process his presence. _Samuel Keith Winchester._ He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. _Samuel Keith Winchester._ His stomach was tight, his heart was pounding, and _Samuel Keith Winchester, Samuel Keith Winchester, Samuel Keith Winchester, Samuel Keith—_

“Sam!” Dean yelled before he even knew what he was doing, one hand flying out to grab Castiel’s shoulder. “Sam, get in here!” He pulled himself shakily to his feet.

“Dean, are you alright?” Castiel put his hand over Dean’s and turned the paper so he could see, his expression sliding from confusion to shock to intense contemplation.

“Is it possible, Cas?” Dean swallowed hard, hands shaking as he clutched the piece of paper. “Is it—could he—?” He couldn’t even say it.

“I can’t sense anything about him, and that includes heritage. It’s…” Castiel shook his head in disbelief. “It’s certainly possible. He’s the right age, and he said he was in Azazel’s camp from the time he was a baby. It’s possible Azazel took Sam from your house and raised him at the camp, doing something to him after birth that made him not quite human. I—”

“Dean?” Sam lingered in the archway between the kitchen and the library, half hiding behind the frame and biting his lip. “Why are you talking about Azazel? Am I in trouble?”

Dean looked up from the birth certificate and sniffed hard, clearing his throat. “No, Sam, uh—” he cleared his throat again, “—Sam, you said you didn’t know a lot about where you came from. Do you, uh… do you know your full name?”

Sam shook his head. “No. I only know my first name is Samuel.”

“How about date of birth?” Dean had to clear his throat again. “Or location?”

“Oh, yeah, um…” Sam thought for a moment. “I was born May 2nd, 1983 in… Lawrence Memorial Hospital.”

Dean exhaled hard and turned away from Sam, leaning heavily against the counter. He put his hand over his eyes and took a few deep breaths.

“Did I do something wrong? I just—I just recited what I remember from my birth certificate.” Sam’s voice was timid. “Dean?”

“Have you seen your birth certificate before, Sam?” Castiel asked in Dean’s place.

“Um, sort of. I found one after Azazel disappeared. It had a lot of blacked out spots, but I memorized what I could read. I thought maybe someday… I dunno, I’d go find the real one.” Sam’s clothing shifted, indicating a shrug. “But then Gordon took it, and things kept happening and… it’s been a while since I thought about it, actually…”

Dean felt Castiel tug on the paper, and he let it go, trying to hold himself together and failing. _I can’t breathe._ He couldn’t _anything,_ and his body was tingling and numb. _Sammy._

“Sam,” Castiel started softly, footsteps telling Dean he had walked across the room. “We believe this is your unaltered birth certificate. It has the right date of birth, hospital, and fir—”

“Oh, the initials! I forgot about that part. I remember the initials for my parents were J and M. Oh, and the time of birth is the same, too!” Sam sounded happy, childish, _ecstatic._ “So, this is really mine? John and Mary… those are nice names.” His happiness faded suddenly. “But why is Dean upset?”

“Sam, do you recognize the last name ‘Winchester?’” Castiel prodded gently.

 _Just ask him! Or tell him!_ Dean would have done it himself, but he still couldn’t make his mouth work.

“Um… I’ve heard hunters talk about the Winchesters. Which makes sense, I mean, I am part demon, so maybe they were hunting my relat—”

“The Winchesters are famous hunters. That—” Castiel was no doubt pointing, “—is Dean David Winchester.”

Sam was silent for a moment, and his voice nearly cracked when he spoke again. “But that’s… how many Winchesters are there?”

Castiel took a deep breath. “Sam, listen to me. That is Dean Winchester, born to John and Mary Winchester in Lawrence, Kansas. You are Sam Winchester, born to the same couple in the same town four years later. Dean is your older brother.”

Dean had almost managed to pull himself together, but hearing the explanation out loud sent his hand back up to cover his eyes. _Get a grip, get a grip, get a grip._

“But… but Azazel killed my parents… and I—I don’t have any family.”

“Who told you that, Sam?” Castiel gently questioned.

“He did, but… but…” Sam inhaled sharply, papers crinkling. “I’m… I’m the one that went missing? His name was Sam, too? I mean—I mean, my name? Our name?” He sounded even more confused than Dean felt.

Castiel didn’t say anything, so he probably nodded.

 _Come on, Winchester, you can do it. You’ve been waiting for this your whole life, and now you can’t even get a sentence out._ Dean wet his lips and slowly breathed out. _Come on, man._

Sam shuffled closer until he was hovering a few feet to Dean’s left, his voice soft and sympathetic. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean’s head jerked up. “What?” He blinked rapidly, hoping to clear the tears before Sam noticed them. Not that it mattered, because apparently his eyes weren’t done watering.

“I… I just, I know how important this is to you, so finding out that it’s me… it’s probably really disappointing. So, I just wan—”

Dean grabbed the back of Sam’s neck and crushed his—his _brother_ against his chest in a hug. “You _idiot._ You’re everything I wanted in a little brother, Sam. You’re perfect.” He hugged tighter, pressing his forehead into _his_ _brother’s_ shoulder. “It’s absolute crap that you’re taller than me, but other than that…” He shook his head, putting some space between them and taking _his_ _baby brother’s_ bewildered face in his hands. “Sam, I’m… I’m over the freakin’ moon, okay? I’m not crying, because I don’t do that, but if I were, they would be happy tears. I just—I just can’t believe it. I finally started to believe that he was—that _you_ were dead, and here you are.” He laughed incredulously, seeking Sam’s eyes, rubbing his thumbs over the real, tangible skin of Sam’s cheeks. “You’re here.” He was touching his brother. He was _touching_ his _brother._ “You’re really here. You’re _here_. I—” Dean froze. “I have to show you something. I have to—come on, follow me.”

Dean grabbed Sam by the wrist and dragged him toward the front door, heart hammering in his chest. His blood pressure shot up tunnel vision kept him from seeing anything that wasn’t right in front of him. He didn’t let go of Sam until they were next to the Impala, at which point, he popped the lid and went for a very specific corner of the trunk.

Taking a deep breath, Dean grabbed the tin and pulled it out, sniffing to clear his sinuses as he handed the box over to Sam.

Sam was looking at him, a combination of fear and worry in his eyes. Dean was probably terrifying him with his sudden, inexplicable meltdown, but Dean couldn’t very well stop it. If he could, it was have been stopped _before_ Sam arrived in the kitchen.

“Go on,” Dean urged, moving the box a little closer.

Sam took the box and cautiously opened it up, peering inside. His eyes widened at the collection of large bills—the box wasn’t full, so Dean never made a deposit—and then he grabbed the folded paper.

Hazel eyes flickered from left to right and back again, skimming the words and getting progressively wider. “This—” He looked up from the paper. “It has my name on it.” He turned so Dean could see the paper. “Look, see? My name’s on the account.”

Dean couldn’t help but laugh. “I know your name’s on the account, Sammy.”

Sam looked at him in bewildered wonder. “I… I don’t understand.”

Dean took a deep breath, but when he tried to speak, nothing came out. He stopped, chuckled to himself, and wiped his eyes. “If Dad saw me crying like this…” He stopped again and shook his head. “No, he’d be crying, too. It would be the one and only time in his life.” He laughed and wiped his face, taking a few deep breaths and trying once again to tell Sam what he had been waiting twenty-six years to say.

“Sammy…” Dean smiled through his tears as he spoke. “Dad got me a Scooby-Doo lunchbox for my fifth birthday, and every day, we put a dollar in it. Every year on your birthday, Dad put in a fifty, and then another one every Christmas.” Dean took another deep breath, trying and failing to calm his racing heart. “Every time we wasted a monster, we put in an extra dollar, because Dad said every hunt brought us one step closer to a future where you would need that money and be here to spend it.” He tried not to focus on the tears rolling down Sam’s cheeks; tried not to think about how his face couldn’t have looked much better. “I know I wasn’t—” his voice cracked,  “—wasn’t there for you like a big brother is supposed to be, but…” He reached out and took Sam’s face in his hands, fingers touching behind the base of Sam’s skull, and he smiled again. “But you need to know not a day went by that we didn’t think about you, Sammy. Not a single day, you hear me?”

Dean searched Sam’s eyes and nearly drowned in the flood of emotion he found. He felt Sam’s tears, hot and falling fast, hit his skin. He felt the little twitches in the corner of Sam’s mouth that said he was trying to smile but couldn’t quite manage. He felt Sam’s pulse thrumming against his palm, felt Sam’s throat bob as he swallowed, felt the tiny vibrations of air being dragged down into Sam’s lungs.

“Can I… hug you?”

Dean once again laughed without his own consent, airy and incredulous and awestruck, and he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, Sammy, you can hug me. You can always hug me.”

Sam looked at Dean expectantly, but Dean simply held out his arms and smiled. “Come on. You asked if you could hug me, not if I would hug you.”

Sam closed the lunchbox and lowered it to the dirt, placing it on the ground as if it were made of gold. He took a half step forward, closing what miniscule distance had been between them, and then he started to awkwardly maneuver his arms around Dean. He went for hugging Dean’s entire body, arms included, but then he changed course and put his arms around Dean’s waist. It took another moment of adjustment, but Sam moved his arms up until they were sharing what could be called a masculine embrace.

_That’s an oxymoron._

But Dean didn’t care. He returned the hug in full, holding onto his little brother for dear life, physically incapable of giving a second thought to his Man Card—or lack thereof.

“You’re my brother?” Sam whispered.

Dean screwed his eyes shut and somehow held on even tighter. “Yeah, Sammy. I’m your brother. I’m your big brother, and nothing is ever gonna take you away from me ever again.”

Sam didn’t say anything for a moment, his breathing shaky and wet. “I’m…” he sniffed, and his voice cracked as he whispered. “I’m sorry I’m broken.”

Dean rubbed Sam’s back with a sad sort of smile. “What was it you told me Cas said? Something about broken souls shining brighter?” He snorted a laugh. “Who gives a crap? Bottom line, we’re both screwed up, and that’s okay.”

“It is?” Sam sounded scared and uncertain.

Dean didn’t hesitate. “It is, Sammy.”

They fell into another silence, easy and comfortable, and Dean could have let go, but he didn’t want to. He felt like he had twenty-six years of hugs to make up for, and he wanted to get started right away; it was the most wonderful obligation he had ever had.

Sam’s shoulders started to shake, but Dean quickly realized, with a rush of relief, that Sam wasn’t crying. He was laughing. He tried to muffle it, but he only wound up snorting, and the little bits of laughter that got out as a result were almost giggly in nature.

Dean chuckled along for no other reason than the contagiousness of Sam’s laugh, feeling lighter than he had in years. “What is it?”

“I’m taller.” Sam giggled again. “Like, a lot taller.”

Dean rolled his eyes and let go of the hug, socking Sam on the arm as lightly as he could. “Bitch.”

Sam met Dean’s gaze, an expression of sheer joy overtaking his features. “Jerk.”

“Hey! Featherbrain is tellin’ me you’re related now, so get in here and explain to me what the heck is goin’ on, _idjits!”_

Dean grinned at Sam. “You wanna go meet your Uncle Bobby?”

Sam’s answer was a smile twice as wide and an enthusiastic nod.

“We’re coming, Bobby!”

* * *

“Just a little family trip. That’s all I wanted.”

“Dean.”

“I thought, hey, I got my brother back—”

“Dean.”

“—I should take him to Lawrence, show him around.”

“Dean.”

“But _no_ , there just _had_ to be a _freaking poltergeist!”_

“Dean! Would you just run already?”

Dean’s back hit the wall, his head making contact shortly thereafter, and he shook himself to clear away the stars. Of course, the resulting pain was no picnic, but Dean was too busy running for the front door to care.

“Dean, the window!”

Dean changed his course and followed the blur he knew to be Sam through the bay window, wincing prematurely as Sam’s body shattered the glass and made way for both of them to hit the ground and roll.

“Run, run, run, run, run, run, run…” Dean continually chanted under his breath, grabbing Sam under the arm and hauling him to his feet.

“Thanks for the advice,” Sam drawled. “If you hadn’t been there, I was gonna sit down and have _tea_ with it.” Sam glanced over as they ran for the road, and Dean caught the flicker of fear threatening to take over Sam’s features.

Dean smirked and shoved Sam forward, grappling with the door handle and getting in on the driver’s side. “There’s the Sammy Sass I was lookin’ for.” He started the engine and threw Baby into drive, whipping the vehicle in a full u-turn and peeling down the road. “I thought you were gonna be boring the whole trip.”

Sam leaned back in his seat, gasping for air and smiling weakly.

Dean smiled back, equally breathless, and he tried not to let it bother him how nervous Sam still was. He knew it would take more than a piece of paper and a month of apocalypse-fighting shenanigans to make Sam realize his worth, but he couldn’t ignore the stab of pain he felt when Sam looked at him—or Castiel or Bobby or _anyone_ —like he didn’t belong, like he was just a tool in their belt.

“So, are you gonna pray, or should I?” Sam rolled his window down slightly, closing his eyes and letting the crisp air hit his face. “Or do you want to go back and try to get rid of that thing by ourselves again?”

“Hey, third time’s a charm.” Dean snorted, easing Baby into a moderate speed as they got a safe distance away from the house. “Nah, we better give him a call. Hopefully, he won’t be too mad about his hunt for the Colt being interrupted.”

Sam nodded his head, but neither of them made the call.

“Dean… do you really think we can do this? Stop the Apocalypse, I mean.” Sam looked down at his lap. “What if… what if we can’t? What if Michael and Lucifer end up—”

“Hey.” Dean kept his eyes on the road but reached over, finding Sam’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “Azazel, Alistair, Heaven, Hell, two decades, and several hundred miles couldn’t keep us from finding each other. If we had never found that birth certificate, it wouldn’t have changed a thing, Sammy. You would still be my little brother. So, if Michael and Lucifer think they’re getting between us—that they’re gonna make us fight each other—they’ve got another thing coming. I told you, Sammy, no one is ever gonna take you away from me again.” He squeezed the joint again and then grabbed the wheel, smirking over at Sam. “Got it?”

Sam grinned, idly reaching up to touch the spot Dean’s hand had just left. He was still so unaccustomed to casual, non-painful contact. “Got it.” He wet his lips and looked out the window. “Promise not to laugh?”

“I never make such promises.” Dean glanced over at Sam and caught his eye, sobering as he realized the question had been genuine. “Unless you really want me to.”

Sam offered a slight nod, biting his lip, eyes fixating on the world outside his window.

“Okay.” Dean nodded solemnly, hoping Sam wasn’t about to drop one of his ‘tragic backstory bombshells,’ as he was prone to do. “I promise not to laugh.”

Sam nodded but didn’t speak right away. He lifted his fingers to his lips and chewed on his thumbnail for a moment, inhaling deeply before speaking over the wind.

“I love you, Dean.”

Dean blinked, startled by the sudden admission, but he didn’t dare reject it. Not when he knew how hard it was for Sam to get his head around the idea that they really _were_ brothers; that Sam really did belong to a human family, a family that wasn’t inherently evil or dirty.

“I love you, too, Sammy.”

Sam smiled lightly. “Chick-flick moments and all?”

Dean smiled back. “Chick-flick moments and all.”

“I, too, am a fan of these moments.”

Sam and Dean both swore loudly, the latter swerving half off the road before getting the wheel straightened out.

“Castiel!”

“Cas!”

“You only express yourself when you behave like chickens,” the angel continued, as if there had been no disturbance. “It makes it so much easier for me, as I don’t have to analyze your body language and speech patterns and cultural nuances.”

Dean pressed a hand to his chest, heart pounding against his open palm. “Cas, seriously. You’re going to kill us one of these days.”

“We’ll drop dead from heart attacks,” Sam added, slumped against the window and grasping his breast in a similar fashion.

“Unlikely. You’re young and healthy, exercise regularly, and have strong hearts.” Castiel paused, a curious lilt entering his tone. “Well, Dean may have heart trouble later in life if he doesn’t adjust his diet.”

Dean held up a finger. “Okay, woah, stop right there. We are not having this conversation.”

“He’s actually got a point there, Dean.” Sam spoke sincerely, but he had a devilish glint in his eyes. “We have to talk about it eventually, and—"

“No.” Dean wagged a finger at him. “No.” He directed the finger at Castiel. “No.” He opened his mouth to object some more, but he caught sight of a sign in the distance, and his lips twisted into a grin instead. “In fact, just to show you how wrong you are, we’re going to Red Robin.”

Sam groaned. “I’m not even hungry.”

Castiel frowned. “I don’t eat.”

“Well, you’re both gonna. Red Robin is my favorite.” Dean flicked on his turn signal, feeling rather pleased with himself. “Dad took me to Red Robin every year for my birthday. It wasn’t always _on_ my birthday—hunts don’t really follow a day planner—but it always happened within a week. Still makes me all fluffy inside to this day.” He smirked. “How’s that for a chick-flick moment?”

Sam crossed his arms over his chest, slumping in his seat with a pout. “You only brought Dad up because you knew I would have to give it a try. That’s cheating.”

“He tends to do that,” Castiel retorted dryly, equally annoyed by the situation.

Dean pulled into the parking lot with a smile and a contented sigh. “It’s good to be the driver.”

Sam looked toward the backseat and smirked. “It’s good to be shotgun.”

“A position which you stole,” Castiel snapped.

And as Dean listened to the bickering between his brother and his best friend, he couldn’t help but feel that all was right in the world. Sure, the Devil was running rampant, natural disasters were at record highs, wars were breaking out all over the planet, and things were generally going to Hell in a handbasket, but did that really matter?

Honestly, with Baby’s keys in his hands, Bobby on speed dial, Castiel in the backseat, and Red Robin in his near future, did anything else really matter? With Sammy sitting right next to him, throwing his head back and laughing like he had never been happier, his recent admission still ringing in Dean’s ears, did anything else matter?

_“I love you, Dean.”_

_“I love you, too, Sammy.”_

No, nothing else mattered, and as far as Dean was concerned?

Nothing ever would.

* * *

 _"‘This isn't me,’ I used to say._  
_All the love was so gone._  
 _It feels good to be alive._  
 _I've been dead for so long, and all the broken promises,_  
 _I can't face, afraid if someone notices, I’ll lose my place._  
 _Fractured, broken, paralyzed._  
 _I need some space, tear me open, analyze._  
 _‘This isn't me,’ I used to say._  
 _All the love was so gone._  
 _It feels good to be alive._  
 _I've been dead for so long._  
 _Wake up screaming, I'm awake and dreaming,_  
 _And I won't stop breathing until my heart stops beating._  
 _‘This isn't me,’ I used to say._  
 _All the love was so gone,_

_It feels good to be alive,  
I've been dead for so long."_

_\- My Throat is An Open Grave by Demon Hunter_


End file.
